


A Game of Cards

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst, Deception, Love Triangle, M/M, Mind Games, Multi, Phoenix Wright Big Bang, longfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broken-hearted unlucky-in-love Phoenix has been disbarred, and with that, has lost everything he holds dear. But amidst the gloom, there's a ray of hope-- Kristoph Gavin. But Kristoph is damaged and he plays games-- games which Phoenix hopes to win to assure he's in for the long haul.</p><p>When one of these games involves Apollo Justice, Phoenix initially decides there's no price too high-- and no depths too low to sink to in order to win. But when he realises he's falling for the young assistant, he wonders how high the stakes really are and if he's prepared to keep gambling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First off: a vague warning: while there are no majorly explicit issues, some of the material contained therein may verge on dub-con given the nature of deception and creepiness about the situation, and I realise this may not be everyone's cup of tea-- but there's no specific warning for it, and I felt it should be mentioned in case it's not for you.
> 
>  
> 
> This was written for the very first Phoenix Wright Big Bang, and it became a lot longer than it should have.
> 
> Some thankyous are in order: to Ourlonggoodbyes, who organised the big bang, and who's been a great support and an awesome friend throughout-- to Withpractice_ff who betaed for me, catching numerous fuckups and errors throughout, to Dreamwriteremmy who composed a beautifully moody soundtrack for said fic, and who managed to know what I was aiming for despite the fact that I hadn't finished when she last saw it, and to Sleepyartist who drew an amazing piece worthy of a movie poster or a book cover-- thankyou so much, guys-- you're amazing.
> 
> I'm posting this in parts because of the length and would like to prematurely apologise for any delays, too, btw.

_Yet it was only that: a game, in the purest sense. A competition, your honor_. [...] _Yes, a test of wits, a silent clash of passions..._

– Kristoph Gavin, _Ace Attorney: Apollo Justice_

 _It’s only a game until someone gets killed, Mr. Gavin._

                                                            -- Phoenix Wright, _Ace Attorney: Apollo Justice_

 

 _  
_

Somewhere in the pre-dawn grey, amongst the pollution and the heat of what is probably going to become a pleasant spring day, a plane leaves an airport and a man on a couch wakes up.

He’s not sure why he wakes, but realising he can’t sleep, he decides to pad through the converted office, formerly the setting for casual water cooler conversation—never _gossip_ , the office was always too small for gossip; “everyone” already _knew_ “everyone else’s” business anyway—many years ago.

The water cooler still remains although this place can no longer be called an office. Or not _his_ office anymore, not the workplace for what he was trained in; perhaps it could be something else.

He’s not thinking about that when he reaches for a plastic cup and fills it. He’s thinking about the ache in his chest and the way he still manages to feel as though he’s been run over by a succession of monster trucks. His head hurts from the hangover, too, and he tries to think of what the logical solution to the dilemma would be.

 _Water_ , a little voice in the back of his head says. _When you have a headache, it’s usually because you’re dehydrated. Just have a drink of water, Wright._ He misses hearing that voice in realtime, but its presence in his head is comforting. __

_Just wait until it starts seriously chastising me_ , he considers, gulping down his drink and casually staring out the window. It’s the side of the building which doesn’t face the Gatewater, but the view is just as constricted as staring into a multistorey hotel complex. Other people’s guttering; concrete, and the dull, rusted metal, dead television aerials, bird shit. If the moon is out still, he can’t see it; but the constant presence of the streetlights and neon signs in the distance leaves his city in a perpetual state of twilight. __

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window, backlit from the light coming in through the windows of what used to be a large foyer area, what is now a makeshift living room and bedroom.

 _You look like hell, Wright, go back to sleep_. __

But he can’t sleep, and he knows it. Once he’s awake, he’s awake, and resigning himself to this fact, he flicks the kettle on.

 

 

 _Today is the first day of the rest of your life_. __

Not that he wants to think about that, and the kitchenette still smells like that ridiculously expensive English Breakfast tea that he’d bought because he’d wanted to impress clients. No, it wasn’t about them, he admits to himself as he opens a cupboard door before remembering that there isn’t any left and he’d have to settle for the supermarket brand stuff in the bags— _more convenient, I guess_ —and searches for something that isn’t thin plastic to hold his beverage.

 

It’s nearly an hour later and he’s back on the sofa as the sun rises, and he realises that right about the time he woke up would have been the same time as when Edgeworth was leaving the country. Funny; there were times before anything happened between them when they seemed to have a sixth sense for one another, when they knew that It Was Serious and the world was worth stopping to help one another out. Edgeworth has permeated his subconscious, and now he’s left with phantom pains related to the man. Miles Edgeworth was a part of him, and now he’s been cut off; and yet Phoenix can inexplicably feel what was once there but no longer is.

No time to think about that now. It’s too late. That plane, figuratively and literally, has already left.

 _Today is the first day of the rest of your life._ __

He smiles sadly to himself and tries to think of the positives.

 _The upside of losing everything is absolute freedom_. He remembers someone, he can’t remember who, telling him that in college, and back then, it sounded deep. But now that he’s lost everything, it just feels lonely, like there’s too much open space, and he’s only just realised he’s agoraphobic.


	2. Chapter 2

The deal is that they do this weekly. It’s been good for him, he tells himself, what, with Trucy’s arrival and the constant uphill struggle to keep a roof above their heads and the bills paid, he hasn’t had the time to be able to catch up with friends. He wants to, but part of that means telling them about what happened, and the humiliation and shame of his own stupidity still cuts too deep. Telling the Feys what happened would be a slap in the face to their kindness, to their encouragement—to their faith in him. The thought of doing this isdepressing, and he’s not sure what would be worse if he did; the blow to his ego, or seeing his former assistant’s reaction. He doesn’t want to find out, and so he pretends everything is fine; he dodges questions expertly, throwing his emphasis and interest elsewhere. So far—and it’s been just over a year now **\--** he’s managed to remain elusive on the subject of his current situation.

 

 

But he’s made one friend, salvaged one worthwhile thing from the whole mess. Trucy, he tells himself, probably won’t be here permanently, it’s just a temporary thing until they find her father and bring him to justice and clear his name... and _what_? He doesn’t know and he lives day-to-day, hand-to-mouth, but a small part of him is trying to prepare himself for the future when Trucy is relegated back to her _real_ family. Trying to think about a future aside from that is too complicated.

Kristoph was the shining, twinkling diamond amidst the rubble.

 

And now they’re doing this weekly; like some sort of guardian angel, Kristoph sees him every Friday at the Borscht Bowl, when he knows it’s quiet, just before the night-time dinner date rush. It’s kind; Kristoph doesn’t _have_ to do this and they both realise this. But Kristoph has said that he cares, that he feels partially responsible because it was _his_ younger brother who lead him to disbarment;Kristoph’s said that he enjoys his company, and Phoenix can’t disagree with that because he enjoys Kristoph’s equally. Kristoph is pleasant and smooth, he requires no explanation of what happened; he was there and knows how it went down and what the final blows looked like. And like a good friend, he doesn’t push anything or ask for answers, he just sits and listens, he’s distracting when he needs to be, steadfastly attentive, concerned and caring in a way that Edgeworth never could have been. Not that it was Edgeworth’s fault, of course. But... still.

 

They’re playing poker. Kristoph calls it an ironic game for them to be playing, though the phrase he’s used to describe it strikes Phoenix as awkward, because there seems to be nothing particularly _ironic_ about it from Kristoph’s end of things; for his own circumstances, which Kristoph only recently became aware of, while it’s a strange coincidence, _ironic_ seems to be an ill-fitting and uncomfortable word. And Kristoph is usually so perfectly articulate when he speaks.

Maybe to him, poker is ironic, because it was a game of cards which signified the beginning of his downfall. But Kristoph doesn’t know this, and Phoenix has never said a word about it.

Phoenix never corrected him on the _ironic_ misuse of the word which _ironically_ fit his own situation; everyone slips up, everyone makes mistakes. And he knows that less than a second can destroy and reshape someone’s entire identity. Kristoph’s choosing the wrong word on one occasion is hardly worth complaining about; he’s done far worse himself. And the man doesn’t like correction, it makes him defensive; Phoenix knows this from seeing him in court on one or two occasions where he’s ever-so-slightly slipped up.

Kristoph has done so _much_ for him; needlessly pointing out a mistake and offending him seems pointlessly pedantic. 

 

 

There is tension in the air and the game is drawing to a close.

Phoenix folds; there’s no way he’s going to win with a hand like that, and Kristoph smiles, his eyes glistening behind those delicate glasses. He has the face of an intelligent angel; serene and smooth and calm, but deeply perceptive, with bright sharp eyes which will notice the smallest of details.

“Do I trust you?” he asks, a deeper meaning to the words, it’s not quite sarcasm and it’s not quite flirting. It arouses a feeling of hunger in Phoenix which in turn makes him feel guilty. He can’t help it; he’s been lonely, starved of normal adult company and a romantic life since his own house of cards collapsed, and this is so regular, so unconditionally involved when it doesn’t have to be that it could pass as a relationship of sorts. Tonight, he thinks, won’t be the first time he leaves the Borscht Bowl privately pretending that he’s not just seeing Kristoph socially.

“I suppose you have to.”

He smiles slyly, his face unable to convey youthful innocence any more. When he first noticed that, it saddened him, but now, in this situation, he likes it; there’s a bubbling undercurrent there; he and Kristoph aren’t just playing poker any more, something _else_ is going on between them, and it’s a strange cat-and-mouse game which they’re playing where this could be leading into something more. He doesn’t want to look innocent, he wants to look mysteriously powerful, living up to his name, proverbially rising from the ashes and holding his own despite what has happened around him. He’s cunning and wily and _experienced._

“I suppose you’d like that.” Kristoph’s voice is an almost hum, and he closes his eyes and opens them again, slowly. The room is full of innuendo, and they're both aware of it.

Phoenix’s eyes narrow. “I would, Kristoph,” he says in a low murmur, his head full of considerations.

They’re not just playing poker any more.

 

It’s this comment, however, which causes Kristoph to lose interest entirely, to push his chair backwards with a fair degree of force and to stand up, still smiling harmlessly at Phoenix, and speaking to him in different tones now, as though having to refuse a small child.

“And this has to be where it ends tonight, Phoenix,” he says in singsong, “I’m afraid I have other people to see, other things to do this evening.” And no one has won or lost the game; Phoenix has folded, but there are still chips on the table.

 

This is part of their usual weekly meeting; it’s always ended by Kristoph, as though he’s become too aware of the innuendo and canno longer handle it.

Phoenix never protests when it happens, but tonight, he can’t help but feel that something is markedly _different_ , as though things were almost _heading somewhere_. And it’s been a few months since Miles left, and longer since he’d had any sort of intimacy with anyone else, and the more he’d been thinking about it lately, the more he’d started realising that he _was_ viewing these weekly meetings as a prologue to a relationship. Perhaps Kristoph was just too shy; perhaps he had some sort of misgiving; maybe he didn’t want to take advantage of someone in a vulnerable state? He wasn’t sure; you never could be sure with Kristoph—but this is when Phoenix also stands up, reaching out over the table and grabs—gently but insistently—the other man’s cuff.

“Why do you always do this?” 

Kristoph smiles. “Do what, Phoenix?”

“You always disappear when things—“ And suddenly he’s lost, stumbling for words, as though he’d just started figuring out a crucial twist in the middle of a trial and he’s flailing, helplessly, for the argument to break the lying witness.

“I’m a busy man,” Kristoph says. “Friday nights can be terribly busy for me: all that catching up I seem unable to do during the week.” He places his other hand on top of Phoenix’s gently, somehow prying him free with no direct movement. “I apologise,” he continues, “I always assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that Friday evenings were convenient for _you_.” 

“They are,” Phoenix says helplessly, “But—“ He looks down at the tabletop and their unfinished game.

“Perhaps we could meet up for a mid-afternoon coffee and catch up more thoroughly next week if you wish—before you have to pick your daughter up from school.”

Phoenix nods. It’s an extension of events, they’re going outside their comfort zone. He should be grateful for that much, and he should be even more grateful when Kristoph presses his business card into his hand; the crisp white thing with the clean, neat typeface and his address and name and specialties.

“That sounds wonderful.” There’s a smile from him, vacant and lonely. Tonight wasn’t his night, he thinks, as Kristoph leaves without any farewell or request to call him.

But it’s progress, Phoenix tells himself. He’s known Kristoph for all this time and yet he’s never received the man’s contact details. He’s always just shown up.

 

 

The office is quiet when Phoenix drops by. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting; this beautiful brushed chrome, steely and inoffensive and cool—very much like Kristoph himself, offset with blonde wood and frosted glass—it makes him feel self-conscious. He’s glad Kristoph hasn’t seen _his_ office, with all its disarray and mess; it looks like a house which hasn’t been fully moved into yet, and an office which hasn’t been fully moved out of. _This_ office, however, is just like the man himself; it’s smooth, tidy, elegant and it exudes the kind of cool most men would queue up to buy if it could be bottled.

It’s the 2pm lunch hour, and Phoenix won’t tell Kristoph that he left work early in order to skip out and brave the daytime traffic in order to be here. Desperation doesn’t suit him, he’s always held his head high and he won’t let it drop now; granted, he’s lonely and miserable, and he’s slowly getting used to no longer thinking of himself as half of a couple, and he’s under pressure, but those have never been reasons to resort to self-pity.

 _Kristoph would find that off-putting_. __

He’s conscious of the fact that it still hasn’t felt like too long since Miles left, that perhaps rebounding quickly and offering Kristoph his still-lingering affection for _someone_ could very well be a bad idea. But he can’t help it. Kristoph makes his life light up; having him as a friend seems too much for him, and yet somehow he’s managed that. And those glances verging on flirtatious weren’t lost on him, either. They caused a frustration and an ache; with Dollie he’d never had to do anything in the way of pursuit, and it was only after he and Miles _finally_ got together that he realised that the _longing_ , the frustration, the push-and-pull exquisite torture of it was strangely enjoyable, that it tended to make the end result far more satisfying. The idea of being already caught in a game of seduction with Kristoph is exciting.

But nonetheless frustrating.

 

“Hello.” Kristoph’s voice is a purr and his eyes are smiling when he sees Phoenix waiting in the lobby. He notices that Phoenix has dressed up somewhat, wearing that old blue suit, in the same colour of a mortally affected computer screen display. Sans badge, of course. He doesn’t comment like the people back at work did, wanting to know what the “big occasion” was, harbouring suspicions that he was on his way out early for a job interview somewhere. He’d smiled and denied, not wishing to talk about the lunch date.

“Hi, Kristoph.” Maybe the excitement in his voice is too obvious and jittery, perhaps his smile is too revealing. Kristoph looks triumphant and pleased with himself.

“I see you managed to stop by—welcome to my office.”

It seems odd that in all these weeks their meetings have been confined to the space of the Borscht Bowl, and Phoenix knows he should be curious, fascinated with getting to see another side of his friend. And he would be, if he weren’t entirely taken with the man himself, too distracted to be looking casually around the office, wondering where and how he did his filing, what sort of decor he invested in, who painted the almost passive-aggressively angry piece of modern art on the wall behind him. Of course he’s reading too much into it; those first few months of art school haven’t entirely left him, he has a need to overanalyse art, to read things into it which the layman, the casual art enthusiast, wouldn’t.

“Thankyou.” He smiles back at Kristoph, and he doesn’t know what to say. At least with Dollie, she made the moves, not giving him time to think and overanalyse _them;_  at least with Miles he had the other man's hurt and anger to latch onto, there was a point of discussion for them, something to work with. Now, this is like being an awkward teenager wishing to ask another out on a date and being uncertain of the response.

“Well.” Kristoph seems uncharacteristically awkward, too, and he glances around, almost thrown off balance. Phoenix would like to think it’s because he’s silently harbouring interest in him too.

He thinks, with some annoyance, that if he’d brought the magatama along, he’d _know_ , but he hasn’t touched the damn thing since the day he was disbarred. He can’t bring himself to; it’s a remnant, like his badge, a symbol of his days as a lawyer, when law was his career, his _identity_ , those were the days when he lived to dig up the truth. Lately, the idea of reconnection with the Feys and handing it back to Pearl has occurred to him; but doing that much would be acknowledging it and having to explain what happened. And it still hurts too much.

“I would suggest lunch but I hate the idea of leaving the office unattended for an hour,” Kristoph says distractedly, his nose wrinkling. “Usually my assistant is here, but--“

As though on cue, there’s a rustle behind them and the door opens. Phoenix turns around and smiles at the young man who appears. He looks as though he’s just been out for a run, a brown paper bag in his hand, his small, round face tinged pink with over-exertion, his hair sticking up crazily at his forehead.

“Hi, Mr. Gavin,” he gasps. He gives Phoenix a curious glance, as though he could be a new client, until gradual recognition causes his eyes to widen and the blush in his cheeks to turn a deeper shade of crimson. He does not wait for an explanation, though, grabbing his bag and sitting behind the front counter. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, still breathless—“The line at the cafe was really long, Mr. Gavin, and—“

“Perhaps you’d be better suited to bring your lunch from home next time.”

“Thanks, Mr. Gavin—will do.”

He opens the bag, digging out a sandwich, and begins unwrapping it when Kristoph eyes him. “You aren’t planning on eating that _out here_ are you?” he asks. “It would look extremely unprofessional.”

The assistant’s cheeks redden again, and he puts the sandwich down on the desk. Kristoph gestures towards another room, and the young man follows his finger with his eyes and then stands up. “In there,” he is told. “And should you hear anyone approaching, I expect that you will return to your station and attend to them.”

“Yes, Mr. Gavin.”

Phoenix just sees a flash of red suit and hears the rustle of the paper bag as the younger man darts through to the other room. When the door is closed behind him, Kristoph smiles warmly. “My new assistant,” he says. “He’s still got a lot to learn.”

Phoenix tries to smile. Seeing the assistant, if only for a moment, is like a reminder that the sun has set on his time in the court room and that it’s dawning for others.

 _Assistant?_ He bites back considerable envy; the _assistant_ looks like he could be in junior high.“How old is he?” he asks.

“Too young.” He’s met with a strange smirk from Kristoph when he replies. “If _that_ was what you were referring to.”

It was and it wasn’t. It’s a painful reminder of _him_ , of a teenaged Miles Edgeworth, prosecutor at nineteen, making his mark on the legal world, Manfred von Karma’s brilliant prodigy at god-knows-when. He wishes he hadn’t asked now, but Kristoph quickly changes the topic.

“Lunch?” he asks. “Now that I know the office is being tended to?” He says it warily, like he can’t trust the kid, but Phoenix is relieved to be out of there when they leave.

 

 

It was interesting, he thinks as he steps out of Kristoph’s car and walks towards the school gates. Kristoph was—well, there was almost hopeful flirtation this time, like when their calves accidentally touched under the table, and when Kristoph casually, tentatively asked about his social life outside work and home. He still doesn’t know what to make of the situation; it’s confusing the way he seemed so... _elusive_. And elusive is the only word he can think of applying to the other man; he’s two years younger than him, he’s a top defense attorney, and there’s little else he knows about him, beyond that his younger brother damned his career—no, _I did that_ , he tells himself for the millionth time—and that he’s capable of—

His chest is still feeling tight as he walks up to the entrance of the school, and he’s smiling, giddy, like he used to be when Mia lavished attention on him that he wasn’t expecting. He’s twenty seven years old, and the idea of having a crush is ridiculous. But turning and smiling in the direction in which the powder blue Jaguar left, he realises that he may just have fallen into the clutches of one.

 

When the familiar sound of the school bell announces the end of the day, and Trucy races from the building, he’s still smiling as he catches her in a hug. They walk from the school grounds together, Trucy chatting excitedly about her day, asking when her mail order of magic tricks is going to arrive so she can show off some new stunts to her friends. Phoenix walks alongside her in the dappled sunlight, listening, though lost in his own thoughts. _Today_ , he thinks to himself, _was a good day_. For the first time in what feels like a long time, he’s optimistic.

 

 

It’s two months later when a crack forms in the optimism, unexpectedly, at close to one thirty in the morning. The phone rings, and when Phoenix answers it, he knows in his heart who it will be.

He’d forgotten--no, not forgotten, but thoughts of how they somehow had a sixth sense about one another had been shuffled further towards the back of his mind now that Kristoph had appeared—about the connection with Edgeworth.

And he _knows_ the purpose of the phone call, and his heart sinks. He can't explain _how_  he knows, it's just that weird uncanny connection, possibly mated with his own pessimism. He just _does_.

 

When he considers _why_ Miles would call, he’s reluctant to pick up the phone. But he does, anyway; perhaps his instinct is failing him, maybe he’s been wrong, because he knows that sometimes he _can_ screw up—and perhaps something has happened. When Miles left, he was more grounded than in the early days, Phoenix likes to think, but the chaotic terror of a suicidal and unstable Miles still haunts him.

 _What if he’s gone back to that?_

He grabs the phone, frantic. It’s not like he’s doing much, anyway. There’s late-night TV on with virtually muted volume, infomercials and televangelists amongst nearly-naked women advising him to _call now_.

“Hello?”

Still, why would Miles ring in the middle of the night so thoughtlessly—unless, of course, he was wrapped up so tightly in his own world?

 _It’s okay_ , Phoenix thinks, _I’m awake anyway_.

 

Trucy is asleep on the bed he’s finally had delivered and assembled; acquiring it required some degree of financial planning and a shift in his work hours, but Phoenix was proud of himself to have done that much. By the time Trucy had arrived home from school, a bunk bed had been erected in what had previously been Mia’s office. He’d draped a starry curtain down from the top mattress, covering the space underneath for the time being until he could budget for another mattress-- perhaps one day they’d live somewhere else and Trucy would want to have a friend stay over for the night? He’s still trying to figure out the world of small children, and had only his own childhood and his limited interaction with a young Pearl Fey from a few years ago to rely upon.

Trucy had been happy with her bed, though, and the thought is comforting. _Maybe I’m getting the hang of this being-a-parent thing._

His hello is forgotten as he thinks about Trucy, asleep in her new bed, but when he hears that familiar voice, he realises he’s going to have to say something.

 

 _Of course it’s him,_ he thinks, dismissing the idea of connection with the other man. There’s only one person who would call him at such a strange hour on a Friday night—Larry will be out partying and trying his luck in the singles scene, and no one else calls anymore.

 

 _And of course he’s found someone else._

 

“Wright?” Of course it’s him. And then, as though realising the time disparity—“I do hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Edgeworth.” He can’t hide the warmth in his voice; it’s good to hear from him after this long. Perhaps he’s wrong, perhaps—

The excitement in the other man’s voice only seems to confirm his suspicions.

“I’ve been meaning to ring you for awhile, actually,” he says. “I... hope you’ve been well.”

“I’ve been...” And he’s not sure how to finish that sentence. And Edgeworth apologises again, quietly. “I can hear what sounds like late night television in the background, Wright,” he says. “Having a late night?” Perhaps he’s sounding happy, _too_ happy, as though he’s affecting happiness for some reason.

“Yeah. I spent the afternoon figuring out how to read badly translated instructions on a self-assemblable children’s bunk bed.” He laughs to himself pathetically. Trucy was always a point of contention between the two of them and he regrets mentioning his fathering duties at the moment.

Miles pointedly ignores this.

“I’m—I’m not sure why I’m ringing—and I’m sorry once again for ringing so late but—“ And he’s flustered and almost embarrassed. Like his call isn’t social, but it has a _purpose._

“It’s all right, Edgeworth.” _Remember when I did the same thing when you were back in Germany, and_ you _didn’t mind?_

“I just wanted to tell you something; I thought you deserved to hear it from me rather than through the grapevine... somehow...”

And Phoenix now _knows_ that his suspicions are correct. It was the enthusiasm in his voice at the start of the conversation, the awkwardness now. It’s Miles Edgeworth’s perfectly polite discomfort, his admission that he’s fallen victim to something so normal and human as wanting emotional involvement with someone, and Phoenix knows it’s serious. It’s the key words which stand out, it’s Miles not knowing why he was calling: he’s never done anything spontaneously, _ever_. And Phoenix waits for the penny to drop, for the confirmation.

There’s a brief silence for less than a moment, and Edgeworth sighs. “I’m seeing someone.”

And that’s it, confirmed. It’s closure in a bad way, it’s a door slammed shut on any possibility of reconciliation, and it’s Edgeworth, embarrassed and explaining frantically—“I figured the only decent thing to do was to tell you; it’s common courtesy, I suppose, since things were so up-and-down with us and—“

Phoenix feels his chest tighten and if he breathes out, it’s soundless. And Edgeworth, lost and suspicious, asks a nervous “ _Hello?_ ”, to which Phoenix can only come out with one response. Knee-jerk, unsophisticated jealousy.

“Who is he?” He’s narrowed the possibility down by at least half the population, he thinks-- Edgeworth doesn’t date women. So it’s... one of the billions of men on the planet—probably in Europe, because that’s where Edgeworth _went_ , probably a professional, because Edgeworth needs an equal, probably a genius because Edgeworth doesn’t tolerate fools--

“He’s actually someone I’ve known for awhile—remember when I was telling you about the former Bahbal republic and the ambassador I met while I was investigating the—“ He shuts himself off, self-conscious, as though something's just occurred to him. “Nothing happened _then_ ,” he hastily corrects himself. “But I was invited to a dinner and a ceremony to honor the unity of Cohdopia and because of my involvement in that investigation...” He trails off again.

Phoenix finds himself sighing quietly, trying to remember the people Edgeworth had talked about over the course of his European adventures involving the smuggling ring seven years ago. _Not_ the creepy old army guy, obviously—he’d been sent to jail, right?--  

“I agonised about telling you about this, Wright,” Edgeworth says softly, “But I’m also aware that Colias is looking at moving into politics; given the situation with Cohdopia reuniting and the attention the media is paying to it...” He trails off uncomfortably.

Phoenix remains silent, not sure what to say. _Colias_. That was his name. He’d given Edgeworth a hamper and a bunch of coupons and he’d asked him to visit for a holiday. Phoenix can feel anger welling up inside him: had _that_ been a proposition for a good time, not too long before they’d started dating? He’s aware of how unrealistic his irritation is, but he can’t make it go away.

“I only felt that giving you a forewarning would be more dignified than allowing you to accidentally switch on the television and see it for yourself.”

Phoenix holds the phone away from his mouth for a moment, not allowing Edgeworth to hear the sigh that escapes him, nor the choked noise he’s worried is going to emerge from his throat at any moment now. This was inevitable. Edgeworth never handled change well, and the circumstances he’d already had to deal with—an unemployed, disbarred Phoenix; Trucy’s arrival; the transformation of what had been his office into his _apartment_ and the clutter and the mess and the uncertainty—it wasn’t good for him. In the last few weeks of their relationship, he’d felt he’d known of a distance growing between them, and he’d hoped against hope that it was just his own pessimism and paranoia. When it had actually happened, when Edgeworth had announced his desire to leave, it had almost felt like a blessing because it had alleviated the worry that things were falling apart. Gone was the paranoia when it became a proven reality.

But it only brought the hurt to the surface, rather than letting it fester underneath a sturdy facade.

“See for myself?” He’s amazed that he can get the words out, more amazed that he can attempt humour. “It’s not like we watch the World News around here, Edgeworth, the only time I get to watch TV is in the early evenings now and usually Trucy’s watching quiz shows.”

“Well—“ Miles seems thrown off by another mention of Trucy, a reality that can’t be ignored. “I thought I’d let you know anyway. Colias has recently been elected head of the National Unity party, and later this year there’s going to be an election for the new president of the now-unified Cohdopia...” He stops there, awkward once more, leaving Phoenix reeling. _So you’re going to become the President’s consort?_

“So you’re worried about a political scandal involving you and the president surfacing on the news where I might see it?”

“Not really,” Miles says slowly. _Of course not, Edgeworth. A tacky affair with a politician isn’t your style._ “He proposed to me.”

That’s when gravity sets in and Phoenix feels his chest tighten. This is serious. This means it’s over: _truly_ over; this means their friendship, their relationship—has morphed into something else entirely different now; perhaps there’ll be a Christmas card every year with a formal-looking but non-descript signature at the bottom wishing him well over the holiday season, maybe he’ll send a handwritten letter with highlights about his family life and photos of he and Trucy getting older together. Maybe Edgeworth will visit America on occasion, to give talks to universities—maybe he’ll save up and sightsee in Cohdopia. But it will never be what it was. And that _hurts._ Even though it shouldn’t.

“Thankyou for telling me,” Phoenix forces out of himself, and he can feel it in his head, the countdown, the fact that he knows he’s got about ten seconds before he’s going to be reduced to sobs. He feels like a child again, desperately not wanting to cry in front of other people; but then, it was for his own sense of dignity, now it’s about knowing that this is only fair, that to burden Miles with his own emotional _stuff_ isn’t right.

“That’s—“ Edgeworth starts to answer, but he’s cut off.

“Does he treat you well?” he asks suddenly.

Edgeworth’s voice is considered and quiet. “Do you really wish to hear the answer to that?” he asks. It’s as though he’s just woken up to the idea that maybe the phonecall wasn’t the best plan of action. And yet being Edgeworth, a man of integrity and concern for his friends, he can’t just turn back down or hang up or claim a bad line and interference to divert the problem. He has to answer, and honestly—“ _Yes_.”

Phoenix nods dumbly. He knows he’s going to be glad for the news, once he’s used to it, and he tells himself in the moment that he is. Edgeworth, it seems, has finally accepted himself enough for a functional relationship with someone else which he can admit to publicly. Part of him wants to know why it couldn’t have been with _him_ , but he knows it would sound bitter if he actually asked that question.

“Are you happy?” he asks. It’s heartfelt, deepest concern for a true friend. He wants him to answer in the affirmative. He _needs_ him to. Perhaps it will grant him closure.

Edgeworth pauses before answering, before what sounds like a decision made to just be honest. “Yes,” he says. And then there’s an almost apologetic realisation and words still unspoken—“ _Thankyou_ , Phoenix.”

 

It doesn’t feel like closure when he’s off the phone. It doesn’t feel like anything, despite Edgeworth’s assurance to “call me at any time, and don’t worry about waking me up since I rang at such an ungodly hour.” But Phoenix knows he won’t, and he sits, awake, watching the glow of the television, the ads and the sermons and the pleas for money and the husky-voiced girls blending into a dull white noise hum. It’s the perfect accompanying soundtrack for how he’s feeling right now.

He drains the half-empty bottle of red wine which had been opened weeks ago, the same variety as the one he’d shared with Kristoph during one of their Friday night meetups. He’d smiled when he’d recognised the name and the year in the shop; there was a sweet sentimentality to it, and he’d purchased it on a whim. And now, drinking alone in the wee hours of the morning, he can’t help but let his mind drift between the past and a hopeful future, between Miles Edgeworth awkwardly suggesting dinner for the two of them and his tentative, childishly sweet attempts at romance, and Kristoph’s cheeky, sophisticated flirtation. He recalls the feeling of Miles’ body against his, of skin touching skin, of the unexpected softness of the other man, of the way he seemed so desperate to remain in control even on the brink of orgasm; he wonders if Miles does that _now_ and hurries that thought along with imaginations of Kristoph; what’s gone is gone, it’s time to move on. Does Kristoph do that, too? Is that part of his appeal, Phoenix wonders to himself, that Kristoph is so perfectly contained and controlled, that there’s the aspect of a challenge there, to ruffle him, to shake him, to make him react and attach against his will?

And... he wants it. He wants Kristoph lying next to him, underneath him, on top of him, he wants to taste him and explore him and treat him splendidly, to uncover whatever mysteries lie within him, to understand him in a way he imagines few others do. And he wants what he had, that simple pleasure of wanting and being wanted, so deliriously and desperately that it was almost painful but never too bad because there was an end in sight. Now, there isn’t one. He allows his imagination to fill in the details, and sometime later with the sun rising outside what’s now a living room window, with an empty green bottle of wine on the bench, and a burgundy stained glass next to it and his hand between his legs, sleep finds him. 


	3. Chapter 3

For two and a half years, they dance along like this. There’s push and pull, the volume rises and falls, little else changes. Every now and then, Phoenix finds his hopes raised, with the hint of an inkling of some information about Kristoph, and when it comes, he cherishes it, replaying it in his mind long after they’ve parted, relishing the fact that his understanding of the man is growing. The lawyer in him, the truth-seeker—hasn’t completely gone— and the mystery of figuring out another person, once a daily staple of his professional life, makes his now mundane existence that tiny bit more interesting.

Just as he gets used to the stable, settled routine, something shakes it slightly, making his eyes widen and his heart race; he has hope again. It feels like he’s tracking something, like he falls off the trail every so often and becomes used to the notion that he was chasing nothing more than imaginary smoke and whimsical dreams. And he’s comfortable with that for awhile. But then something shakes things so entirely that it raises his hope and he knows it’s not his imagination playing tricks on him after all. And he allows it to consider the fantasy of future developments.

At Trucy’s insistence, Phoenix allows her to audition at the Wonder Bar when she arrives home one afternoon with the explanation that they’re looking for new talent. He’s dubious initially; he’s never actually been into the Wonder Bar, assuming the name is some sort of play on suggestions of something lewd and adult. He’s seen college students and middleclass couples head in there for nights out; he’s glimpsed at bucks and hens parties showing up by the busload on the weekends, and he’s deduced that it’s not the sort of place he’d like the little girl who’s become his daughter to be working at.

Except for the fact that Trucy was right about the Wonder Bar; the talent never goes beyond PG-rated, at least beyond the standup comic hopefuls with their sometimes racy language and the coy, old-style burlesque performers whose allure lies in being able to leave quite a fair bit to the imagination. There’s an old-fashioned innocence about the place; it’s kitsch and silly, but still relatively family-friendly. And an eight-year-old magician would only add to their quirkiness. After a brief meeting with the manager, Trucy is signed as one of their attractions; she adds some respectability to the place.

For Phoenix, it’s nothing short of surreal. Trucy’s suggestion that the Wright offices be not closed but _opened_ to a different kind of business is taken on board: Phoenix can be her _manager_. They’re not short of talent, she argues, even though Daddy—she’s now calling him that, and he strangely doesn’t protest—is disbarred. Besides, he used to play the piano years ago and there’s no reason he can’t return to that.

 

Life has changed for him from his days in court; Trucy’s enthusiasm has been a welcome distraction from the rest of his life, and he takes fatherhood seriously. He sees the way Trucy grins at him when he talks about playing the piano, he thumps out a few simple tunes on the miniature model he bought for her on her birthday, and to his daughter, he could be a professional. He knows he isn’t very good, but he doesn’t have the heart to not play; Trucy makes him believe, some days, that he really could do magical things with the little talent he has.

Phoenix watches her performances with loving adoration, captivated not so much with the sleight of hand and the tricks themselves—they’re simple mechanics when you understand how they work—but the _true_ magic: Trucy’s ability to read a crowd, to gage their reactions, to sometimes withhold the miracle moment where the flowers appear or the rings fall apart to a point where no one is watching and she’s fully aware of it. He hears the gasps of the audience and cannot help but smile; she’s a _genius_.

It’s after the seven o’clock show ends when they leave, heading into the second part of their act, and this time they’re supporting one another in a less obvious fashion. They're at The Borscht Bowl; and this time it’s cunning strategy; Trucy can unobtrusively observe and assist Phoenix in games of poker and Phoenix has his own stage and _talent_. He’s become the venue's secret star attraction. Until asked, he’s a benign-looking piano player, awaiting tips and requests for musical numbers, but everyone really knows the requests he takes: they’re for downstairs games of poker. It adds to the kitsch factor of the Borscht Bowl to surreptitiously slip the pianist a twenty, and to ask for a game of poker in a hidden room which used to be frequented by underworld figures. Trucy casually watches him, sometimes doing her homework in the corner, because a down-and-out card shark like the man in with the five o’clock shadow and a faded hoodie _obviously_ cannot afford a babysitter on his meagre wages.

It’s all costuming, all part of their act. It pays when people underestimate you sometimes; Phoenix is well-aware of the way people do, and it gives him a quiet thrill to beat them when they’re so confident to begin with. And as his reputation grows, as people come to know of the unbeatable poker player in the Borscht Bowl, people _over_ estimate the role of chance and probability. If he’s remained undefeated for as long as he has, surely he has to lose at _some_ stage? He’s a jackpot waiting to explode, and he gains a reputation from it: poker players and gamblers the world over want to be the famous one who toppled the great Phoenix Wright. Except that no one _can_ , and it only fuels the fame and the reputation.

 

Of course, there’s another upside to the Friday night gigs, and it’s that Kristoph Gavin cannot disappear as easily as he previously could. Phoenix, whom he still seems intent on catching up with, is suddenly _booked_ , and Kristoph needs to schedule his activities around that rather than expecting Phoenix to dovetail in with his own plans. And Phoenix likes this; for the first time, it’s a subtle shift towards the power being in his favour. He’s no longer running around waiting for Kristoph and able to be _left_ there like just one of many things Kristoph has to attend to. Suddenly he’s become a priority.

And being the last item on Kristoph’s busy schedule means that he gets to see more of him and that the structure of their meetings changes; there’s no leisurely catchup which gets walked away from with a pat on the shoulder and “You have to go and so do I,” there’s the time and space of a weekend in front of them.

 

On a few occasions, Kristoph drives them home after their Borscht Bowl stint; Trucy curls up and sleeps in the back of his car as Phoenix sits in the passenger seat next to him; after all, he’s letting Trucy have _space_ , and Kristoph is always happy to talk in a muted undertone to him about the day’s events, the recent goings-on in court, and where their lives are.

Phoenix never lets Kristoph into the office-cum-apartment though. Two years on and it still looks lived in and untidy, and he hates the idea of this model of perfection seeing it like this.

 

But it’s in the car one evening, and when Kristoph makes mention of it, that things shift ever-so-subtly once again.

“Not inviting me upstairs for a coffee?” he asks coyly as he slows the car and kills the engine. His voice is liquid smooth, and there _has_ been touching this particular evening. Just a hand on a thigh, so little that it could be forgettable, but Phoenix still sees it as a sign of hope. Kristoph _still_ hasn’t mentioned any kind of significant other, either, making Phoenix suspect there isn’t one. It hasn’t felt like he’s skirted around, avoiding the subject, more like he hasn’t talked about it in the way that a non-fan won’t talk about their collection of Steel Samurai merchandise.

“I would if I had some space to prepare a coffee—“

Trucy is snoring quietly in the back seat, and that’s the detail Phoenix picks up on. Trucy is asleep. She isn’t hearing this. She also isn’t seeing Kristoph’s hand softly landing on his thigh, not moving but sitting there, subtle and promising.

“Space?” he asks. He sounds amused and predatory, and Phoenix’s heart races. There’s something weirdly dangerous about him beneath the cool friendliness. His hand on Phoenix’s leg feels surprisingly warm, too, something he wasn’t expecting. He wonders how the rest of him feels.

“It’s cluttered up there.”

“Some would think of that as cosiness.”

Maybe the _up there_ is his own headspace as much as anything else, because Phoenix can still hear Miles’ disapproving voice— _Really, Phoenix, if he’d wanted to make a move on you, wouldn’t he have done so before now?_ And then the memory of how Miles was always so quiet in his affection around Trucy. _It’s not proper for a child to see her father engaged in this sort of behaviour with a casual partner._

“It’s messy,” he protests weakly, as Kristoph’s hand moves subtly, the warmth not disappearing but radiating through his leg now.

“I’m accustomed to a bit of mess, Phoenix.” He smiles sweetly.

“There’s not much room. Your car has more space than my apartment does.”

“Yes, but there’s a child asleep in the back seat.” He’s still smiling, and he adjusts his glasses. Was that some sort of suggestion that... no. It wasn’t. Couldn’t have been. The idea of Kristoph doing anything sexual in the back of a car is ridiculous.

“You’re sounding as though you would like to see my apartment.” He’s resigned under Kristoph’s touch; it’s a weak protest and he knows it.

“You’ve seen _my_ office,” Kristoph chides him gently. “And I would like a ...coffee.”

He’s not talking about coffee, and Phoenix can’t help the way his blood races at the implication.

“Okay,” he says. He’s given in. “I’ll get Trucy into bed and then... _coffee_.”

 

Kristoph looks serene as he opens the car door and steps out. The security lights outside the building flicker on, bathing him in golden light, making him look like something otherworldly and angelic. Phoenix smiles at him as he gets out of the car and moves towards the door to the back seats to lift up Trucy. He feels awkward and clumsy next to Kristoph and his natural grace, and even moreso as he lifts his daughter— a dead weight when asleep— from the seat.

“C’mon, Trucy-girl,” he mutters as he lifts her, leaving her hat and bag of tricks on the back seat next to where she was sleeping. Kristoph leans down to collect them. It looks so effortless and fluid when he moves like that, and suddenly Phoenix is self-conscious again, clumsily walking up the steps, fumbling with keys in his fingertips and the body of his daughter in his arms and hands, while the other man stands next to him, bringing up the accessories, unfettered and dignified.

 

He unlocks the door and stumbles in through the darkness; he’s padded through the apartment in the dark so many times before that he knows it instinctually, in a way that Kristoph doesn’t yet and hopefully never will. But once he’s placed Trucy in her bed and tucked covers over her— again in the pitch black, because it’s become a sequence of movements he just does automatically and without much thought now—he realises he’s going to have to turn the lights on at some stage. It’s awkward and embarrassing, it’s like that _first time_ , he thinks, when you have to reveal the body that you’re used to and know isn’t perfect to someone you’re worried might be repulsed by it.

Except it’s more than his body, it’s what’s become of his entire existence, and somehow that’s more personal than flesh and scars and hair and what age has done to him. He flicks the lights on coyly and shifts his glance away from Kristoph, who drops the bag and the hat on the end of one of the sofas.

“This is quite a nice little setup you have here.”

Of course he’s going to say something polite. _He kind of has to_ , Phoenix thinks, _since he made it clear that he wouldn’t be horrified by the mess_.

“Thankyou,” Phoenix mutters. He’s embarrassed by the attention drawn to his surroundings, and he’s reminded of that first time with Edgeworth, when he’d made the mistake of pointing out that he had an incredible body, and Edgeworth had stiffened awkwardly, embarrassed. Sometimes the best way of enjoying something and complimenting it is to not point it out.

It’s mildly odd, then, that instead of cringing and changing the subject, Kristoph merely smiles softly, watching Phoenix’s reddening face, as though he’s enjoying it, savouring the moment.

“Let’s make that coffee,” Kristoph suggests, looking over the small, linoleum-tiled kitchenette. Thankfully, Mia’s office—Phoenix still thinks of the additions which made it liveable as _Mia’s_ bright ideas—had a tea room. And a bathroom, equipped with a shower stall, apparently to encourage employees to cycle in to work. During his days as a trainee lawyer, he never used it, but once Mia was gone, he appreciated the warm water after a ride in to the office.  Now he appreciates the extra fixtures as an essential part of his homelife. It has occurred to him on numerous occasions that if his former workplace hadn’t had these fixtures, he’d be screwed. Or relying on Larry for assistance.

His hands twitch as he opens the cupboard and pulls out a small percolator and a bag of ground coffee. He can feel Kristoph’s gaze on him and the apartment, scanning around for flaws and imperfections, even though the other man offers no comment on any of it. His apartment, like the rest of his life, is still a mess, two years on from when everything fell apart. It’s just that he hasn’t had time yet to sort it out.

“So,” he says, fumbling for conversation as the coffee boils. “This is it—my humble abode.”

“It’s cozy.”

“You don’t need to be polite about it—it’s a pigsty.” He stares at him then, trying to read the blonde’s face. He doesn’t want to talk about his apartment; he wants to cut to the finish line of this two year marathon, he wants to get to the _point_. Maybe the anger is starting to appear in his voice.  “Why did you decide _now_ , of all times, Kristoph, to come and visit me?”

“I have a confession to make.” And with that, he looks awkward, glancing around for somewhere to sit. Both their eyes fall on the sofas, again, remnants from when the office was a legal practise—and Phoenix gestures towards the one with the least amount of stuff on it.

“Just shift the papers off there and have a seat,” he offers amicably. It’s not just a few papers, but weeks of television guides which usually remain unopened. Kristoph flicks them aside like they’re something filthy, looks at the bare expanse of fake tan hide, and sits down. He crosses his legs and rests his hands in his lap. He looks awkward and very much out of place in here, sitting like that.

Phoenix tries to keep his voice calm, but he wonders if the shake in his hands has moved to his throat. “What do you want to confess?” There might be a giddy smile making its way onto his face, and he can’t quite look at him; he turns his attention to the percolator, flipping open the lid and noticing only a bare amount of liquid in the base. He snaps it shut and forces himself to look at his guest.

“Perhaps my interactions with you have not been pure in intention,” Kristoph admits, not quite looking at him. He runs his fingers through his hair, brushing cornsilk blonde strands away from his glasses. “I’ve always wanted to get to know you a lot better, Phoenix.”

The low undertone is interrupted by the splutter of the percolator, and Phoenix jumps slightly, seduced by that voice and confession, startled by the sudden hiss and spit of the hot liquid.

Kristoph is unperturbed. “Maybe I didn’t just come up here for coffee.”

 

Sucking his breath in, Phoenix switches off the hotplate and quickly pours two cups of coffee. He has no idea if Kristoph takes milk and sugar; he likely does; the brutal bitterness of coffee in its pure form seems too rugged and harsh for someone like him.

But coffee is the last thing on his mind. Moving through to the living room, he plants himself next to Kristoph on the sofa, clumsily placing their steaming mugs on the glass-topped table in front of them.

He can’t hide the smile on his face, but he can’t _look_ at Kristoph, either. Maybe he doesn’t want this all now, maybe he wants more drawn-out seduction, maybe this is just loneliness and sadness which has him longing for another human being—

“Right,” he mutters to himself.

“Is there something the matter with that?” Crab-like, Kristoph seems to flinch and retreat.

“Not at all,” Phoenix says, gradually bringing himself to look at the other man, to take in those beautiful, cautious pale blue eyes. “I just never thought...”

“That I was interested?” He chuckles dryly. “You underestimate yourself, Phoenix, you forget your accomplishments. There was a time when the whole world appeared to be interested in you.”

_And then they went away and I’m a—_

“I’m a has-been,” Phoenix murmurs. “You always seemed to prefer modern styles.”

He can feel Kristoph’s hand, gently and almost childishly, tracing along his thigh once more. “I also have a keen interest in the wisdom of years past,” he says. “And I do believe you _are_ innocent, Phoenix. It isn’t my _style_ to associate with frauds and liars.” 

He rubs over the fabric of Phoenix’s slacks, bringing his gaze up to meet the other man’s. “I never said anything because I didn’t feel that my interest in you was reciprocated,” he says quietly. “And perhaps I do have a habit of not entering into battles unless I’m sure I can attain victory.”

“You see a... relationship—“ he feels stupid when he says the word—“as a _battle_?” Phoenix pulls back, humiliated, feeling awkward again, uncomfortably remembering flashbulb moments; his first time in court when he had that cold; that first time in court with Mia, where he stumbled through trying to defend Larry, where even the judge tried to set him at ease... that first time he’d seen Miles Edgeworth in nearly fifteen years—

“Perhaps not a _relationship_ ,” Kristoph says. “Maybe that’s pushing it too far—I still suspect you might have feelings for that prosecutor—“

And hearing Miles referred to in such a throwaway manner _hurts_ , because it’s true. He’s not some lost chance or some significant other, he’s an _ex_ , he’s _that prosecutor_ , he’s a piece of the past to be referred to in quick shortnotes—

“And I must admit, Phoenix—I am considerably damaged.”

Phoenix nods, this sudden revelation overshadowing his humiliation. It’s the _scorn,_ thealmost _touched_ way Kristoph seems to be suggesting that a relationship is so entirely out of the question; it _stings_. And it almost demands some back-pedalling to maintain dignity; _No, Kristoph, I didn’t mean_ that _sort of relationship; just a... I don’t know what we’d call these interactions._

A relationship?

_Yes._

It all makes a horrible sort of sense now, and this one shocking revelation doesn’t leave him the time to deal with the previous tone in Kristoph’s words.

Oh, _god_. Kristoph is terrified of getting _hurt_ , of getting worse— more damaged than he is now, and he’s admitted, somehow, that Phoenix himself could be a catalyst for bringing further damage, that he’s significantly invested in him—

Phoenix rubs his chin thoughtfully, distracted. Perhaps Kristoph is somehow thinking his brokenness could somehow hurt _him_ , and Phoenix knows it can’t. So much of him seemed to be replaced with things more practical and resilient and less porous when Edgeworth left. Nothing— not even this man he’s growing more and more attached to with every meeting, despite the frustration—can hurt him.

He longs to ask who it was who did this and caused this, and he doesn’t and can’t. Instead, he lets himself utter a quiet and awkward “I’m sorry,” a comforting hand meeting Kristoph’s leg.

No movement from Kristoph, no encouragement, but he doesn’t shirk away as Phoenix partially suspected he would.

He grows bolder and he shifts closer. Desperate to somehow lighten the mood, realising that Kristoph isn’t going to offer anything else, he smiles. “You don’t look very damaged to me from _this close up_.” He chuckles, examining Kristoph’s smooth porcelain features. “You look—“ He laughs again, looking away. He always feels cheesy when he flirts, which might explain why he so seldom does it, and why Kristoph might have had the idea that he wasn’t especially interested in him. But he’s interested now and it’s _awkward_. He’s too old for this, it’s been so long since he’d bothered with any of it.

“Amazing.” His voice softens with embarrassment; it’s like Kristoph can read his mind, can see all the failures and difficulties there, and it’s weirdly arousing. He trusts him enough to not move away, to want more, to see what the other man will do next.

Kristoph’s response is to gently—but sharply—tilt his chin up so their eyes meet.

“I suppose a kiss is not out of the question, then?”

Phoenix has no time to reply: Kristoph’s hands are cupping his face, and his breath is moving against his own, and then, _then_ , in what’s felt like decades of this strange dance, his mouth is open. For the first time in what feels like an age, he’s connecting physically with another human being. Fireworks could be going off outside the window, a fanfare could be playing somewhere, but all he’s thinking about is the way Kristoph’s mouth moves against his own, the way his tongue, cautious and yet playful, slides against his, the way he seems just as hungry as he is, the way—

 

“We should stop.” Kristoph jerks away abruptly. “I neither wish to hurt you nor to be damaged myself.” He stands up, every bit as sudden as when he departed every Friday evening, leaving Phoenix on the sofa, reeling with confusion and hurt.

“Why?” It’s the one question he’s seldom asked out aloud. It’s raced through his brain and tormented him for years; on the days when he’s willing to blame someone for his disbarment beyond himself, that question has repeated itself, buzzing away like a dying neon light—Why? Why? Why? Why would someone have destroyed him like that? He certainly didn’t do it himself, he didn’t know anything about the paper which damned him; it was handed to him— Trucy got it from somewhere and he’s never asked and isn’t going to ask where it came from—she’s a little girl and the last thing she needs to feel is responsible for ruining her daddy’s career. She’s lost so much already in that complicated episode, she doesn’t need to feel like she’s responsible for any of it.

But this is far simpler.

“What did I do?” Phoenix blinks, to no response from Kristoph. Finally, as the blond looks guiltily in the direction of the coffee pot, like he’s realising that he hasn’t even had any coffee, he looks at Phoenix.

“You didn’t do anything,” he says. “I feel as though I have.”

“Don’t.” Phoenix sounds like he’s protesting. “I wasn’t thinking about Edgeworth—or anyone else—if that’s what you were thinking.”

Kristoph’s expression changes slightly, like he’s uncovered the truth.

“I’m just not used to this any more— dating is very much a moot point with me now.” He rubs the back of his neck anxiously. “I’m... like this with everyone. It’s awkward: I’ve been out of the game for what feels like a long time, that’s all.”

Kristoph smirks, raising an eyebrow and not saying anything.

“Not with _everyone_ , you know what I mean—just...” He hates the way he flounders, the sense that he’s somehow ruined everything. And then comes the anger. Maybe the damage done is not on _his_ part, but Kristoph’s.

“Who hurt you?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t kiss and tell, Phoenix.” There’s a sad, resigned feel to Kristoph’s words, and it’s equal parts frustrating and painful to listen to. Everyone knows that Kristoph is brilliant and has what looks like a perfect life; a man like that isn’t— _cannot—_  be damaged. Or shouldn’t be. Of course, he himself had a perfect life, too, and now that’s all a distant memory, but Kristoph is something else: the man is style personified, brilliance raved about. He has a fancy office and a young assistant who is training to be a lawyer; he’s the legal world’s Next Big Thing. A man like that shouldn’t be damaged. After all, no one set him up and had him disbarred; to Phoenix, he still has a world of happiness awaiting him.

“Okay.” He folds his arms and watches Kristoph carefully, worried that he’s about to make a shift towards the door. Will he be pathetic enough to chase after him like a desperate loser with a crush?

“I’m not that person, though,” he says gently. He glances at the coffee pot in the kitchen. “I don’t want to push you into anything, but ...at least you could have a coffee with me.”

Kristoph nods, smiling slightly. “Very well then,” he says, walking through to the kitchen to pour himself a cup. “And... I’m... sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Phoenix feels conflicted now, as though wanting Kristoph to be more than the very good friend he’s been is unfair, somehow cheapening him, taking advantage of him. He realises when Kristoph sits down that perhaps most of the hunger he’s felt has been for the company of another adult, one where he’s being appreciated and spoken to for who he is, not a small role in their life as a poker playing pianist or “Trucy’s dad.” He appreciates Kristoph. And if no longer viewing him in a sexual light is going to save their friendship, he’s more than happy to do that.

 

But Kristoph seems to be confused as well. Following the coffee there’s another kiss, chaste and soft and perfectly harmless, a kiss which makes Phoenix feel immensely guilty after Kristoph’s earlier confession. It’s Kristoph who takes it to another level, to that place where it can’t rest in a pile of things allocated to the innocent; it’s Kristoph who murmurs softly against his skin— _god I want you_ —it’s Kristoph who pushes him against the cushioning on the sofa and climbs atop him, his tongue much more aggressive and forceful than it was before; it’s Kristoph who rougly yanks his hat off to caress his hair.

And it’s weird and disconcerting, because Phoenix was willing to drop that, to relegate Kristoph to a role of “never can be more than a friend,” and suddenly that idea is flipped over as Kristoph slides a hand around him, under his hoodie, his fingertips running along the elastic of his waistband.

He’s confused. But there’s a liberation in the confusion; he’s always liked to feel as though he’s in perfect control of his life and himself, and that extended to his relationships. One of the major problems between himself and Edgeworth was that the prosecutor was similar to him in that respect; Edegworth liked—no, _needed—_  to have control of things, too. Eventually there was some give on both their parts to push pride aside, but there’d never been any sort of discussion about when this was or when either could trust the other. When Larry had rather stupidly asked, in his attempt at humour, which one of the two wore the pants in the household, they’d both quickly replied it was _them_.

But it’s not something he’s thinking about at this moment, as Kristoph pushes himself closer. There are wisps of blonde hair in the way and desperate, almost angry fingers brush them aside, using the opportunity to shift position, pinning Phoenix to the sofa below him.

His blood is racing and his heart is thudding in his chest with such force that he’s surprised Kristoph hasn’t commented on it. Well, maybe not—Kristoph’s actions aren’t suggestive of him wanting to make casual observations; he’s distracted.

It almost reminds Phoenix of Edgeworth. Their initial encounters had started out resembling some sort of frenzied, awkwardly-fast-paced wrestling contest; he’d offhandedly joked that they’d have baffled anthropologists because it looked too much like fighting to be fucking, and too much like fucking to be about fighting. Edgeworth had blushed and walked through to the kitchen to make tea, but things had quietened down after Phoenix had made that observation, curiously not disagreeing with it at all, but not dignifying it with agreement.

 

But now isn’t the time to be thinking about Edgeworth, especially after he’s said that he wasn’t.  Now is when he’s thinking, no, he’s _not_ thinking, about the way that Kristoph’s fingers are running along his skin so quickly and skilfully, garnering a deep moan from him, or the way that his mouth has become furious and domineering, kissing him almost viciously, pushing him further into the cushioning. He opens his mouth wider, taking him in while there’s shock and further confusion—he wants this, _right_?—and then Kristoph shifts above him.

“Perhaps this would be better suited to a bedroom, hmmm?”

Phoenix ignores the comment and merely kisses him again. Another moment of frenzy later, and he can feel the blond’s hand in his hair, pulling him away for a moment. “Phoenix?” he asks.

“Mmm?”

“I suggested that perhaps we could move ourselves to somewhere else?”

“Like... where?”

“A bedroom?” At that angle, and with the way he’s sitting, still close but not suffocatingly so, Phoenix can feel his erection pushed against his thigh, straining against the confines of his powder blue suit.

“Right now, this _is_ the bedroom for me.”

“I see.” It doesn’t stop anything, merely slows it for a bit, and Phoenix sighs as the kisses grow softer and gentler, as Kristoph’s attention slows and he seems more aware of the fact that they won’t be moving anywhere else this evening, that this faded, sorry-looking sofa is where it _is._

Against what feels like his normally cautious judgement in situations like this, he finds himself kneeling on the floor not long after, relishing the way Kristoph grips the armrest of the sofa with one hand and directs the movement of his head with the other. His eyes are on Kristoph’s face, meeting his eyes when they’re open, curious and lustful, trying to read his expression. From the sounds that he’s making, he’s enjoying himself, but like Edgeworth, he’s got that incredible control; he’s still not giving away too much.

 

Twenty minutes later, there’s still no strong indication of anything coming to a climax, and sensing his exhaustion, Kristoph softly directs him from his cock and back onto the sofa next to him.

“I’m sorry.” Phoenix can barely look at him.

“Don’t be.” There’s tenderness in Kristoph’s voice, and his hand moves to the back of his head. He casually strokes the spikes of black hair and smiles at him. “I just have a tendency to be strange about letting my guard down,” he admits. “Even in such intimate situations as that one.”

“Perhaps if we’d—“

Kristoph smiles sweetly. “It’s perfectly okay,” he says. “Perhaps the polite thing for me to do would be to reciprocate—“

“Not if you don’t want—“ Phoenix realises that his protest is a weak one, and Kristoph doesn’t give him time to fully state it anyway.

And for a moment, he’s in bliss; his fingers crawl through silken pale hair, marvelling at its length; a novelty he’s not yet accustomed to, its texture slightly coarser than Edgeworth’s was, and the hands at his belt and underpants are swift and clever and strangely sensual. He can’t help but watch; maybe it’s not good form, but he’s fascinated and aroused, and only moreso when he feels the warm, moist breath from the other man against sensitive skin.

Kristoph knows what he’s doing, he thinks to himself. He’s captivated; Edgeworth seldom went in for this, and never somewhere as common as on the sofa with city light rendering the room bright enough to see what was going on around them. Edgeworth was so particular that he was almost a killjoy in that respect; he had definite preferences and routine which couldn’t be deviated from. He liked the lights out, the door locked, and _that_ door to be the bedroom one. He only liked a few limited positions, and any change from his preferences would sometimes lead to some kissing and cuddling, but never any more than that. And nothing had ever lead to Phoenix being on the receiving end of—

His thoughts are stopped, and he’s glad because it still makes an honest man of him as he feels the mewl in his throat and his hands clench into fists of hair and the warmth of Kristoph’s mouth engulf him.

“ _Jesus_.” A moment after he’s said it, he glances in the direction of Trucy’s bed, hoping that her extra sensory perception has switched off for the night and she hasn’t heard anything and doesn’t come padding through to ask what’s going on. 

He bites down on his bottom lip uneasily, and he’s watching Kristoph’s face; there’s a strange sort of satisfaction in his eyes when he does, and that look—so confident and triumphant—only pushes him closer to orgasm. He clenches his eyes shut, humiliated that he’s not going to last long— this is so desperate and juvenile, he’s not fifteen years old any more—but the loss of one sense only heightens the others. He can feel warmth and moisture and pressure and movement, and a soft reverberation when Kristoph takes him deeper into his mouth, a hand steadying him, pushing him upwards. As though he’s insatiable, as though he’s wanted this every bit for as long and as desperately as Phoenix has, and it’s that thought which pushes him over the edge; he feels Kristoph’s tongue brushing over the tip of his cock, and then beautiful sweet release. His eyes open and he watches fastidiously as an unperturbed Kristoph makes no suggestion that he’s doing anything out of the ordinary, his face barely moves but there’s a subtle tilt of the adam’s apple suggesting a swallowing motion, and Phoenix is drawn in, fascinated and mesmerised. His attempt at silence has been a strong fight; he could feel himself screaming obscenities as he came between pursed lips and clenched teeth, desperate not to wake his daughter, and now, while Kristoph is dabbing at the corner of his lip with a handkerchief, he realises the effort it’s taking to not begin gushing praises and rambling on sycophantically at the other man. He wouldn’t, of course— that would probably offend Kristoph’s sense of dignity.

 

“You enjoyed that, I assume?” Kristoph has returned his glasses to his nose and is smiling chastely. Phoenix can still feel his heart racing and despite the half-hearted attempt at straightening himself up, he wonders if his body is having aftershocks from the initial explosion and he’s coming again without fully realising it. He tries to think unsexy thoughts. Sheepishly, Edgeworth and that logical lecture which shut down his suggestion of a threesome comes to mind. He smiles giddily at Kristoph.

“Very much,” he says. “T-thankyou.”

“My pleasure.” When Kristoph smiles like that, serene and saint-like, Phoenix realises he’s only ever going to think filthy thoughts about the man. There could be innocence in that smile, but now he knows better.

“Perhaps I should actually have that coffee,” he says with a smirk. “In case Trucy wants to know anything about tonight and what I was doing here.”

Phoenix smiles to himself and nods. He likes Kristoph’s _tidiness_ , the way he makes sure that everything has a logical conclusion. He longs for a house big enough for this to be less awkward, or, for the first time since parenthood that he can recall, for some time _away._

“Shall I make one for you, too?”

Again, Phoenix nods silently, watching the now fully composed Kristoph move through to the kitchen, find two coffee mugs and fill them.

It’s only tepid by the time they drink it, but it doesn’t matter to Phoenix. Sitting here, relaxing, with thoughts of Kristoph and this strange tangled dance they’re doing with maybe the barest hint of a future in the distance is nice, he realises. He leans against the blonde, drifting into a light, contented sleep, happier than he’s been in a long time. Perhaps things are slowly starting to look up for him.

 

<hr>

 

He wants to wake up and prepare a lavish breakfast—as lavish as he can imagine, anyway, with the small kitchen and the limited supplies on-hand—for Kristoph and Trucy. It’s Saturday morning, a day for either sleeping in and lazing about, or for an early start and casual plans and time spent together. He wonders what Kristoph would _like_ —there are eggs in the refrigerator, and he grins stupidly to himself at his sentimentality. Edgeworth had always said that he still had the heart of a romantic. Perhaps he hadn’t meant it to sound flattering, but he couldn’t help himself, there was extra depth to his voice, possibly suggesting that it was appreciated and that perhaps if he’d not been as damaged as he was, he’d have been willing to reciprocate.

He doesn’t want to think about Edgeworth at the moment, and he’s distracted away from that thought when he realises something: it’ll be breakfast for only two. Kristoph has left.

 

He wanders through to the makeshift bathroom in case he’s wrong—no evidence of Kristoph having been in there at all , let alone still being on the premises. He closes the door in frustration, perhaps a bit too loudly—and hears small sticky footsteps come padding up behind him.

“Daddy?” It’s Trucy, bleary-eyed and only minimally awake, her auburn hair a birds’ nest of unrestful sleep.

“Hey, sweetie.” He’s trying not to sound deflated. Some part of him had hoped that had been Kristoph, that he’d found somewhere else to sleep, that—

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Trucy—you awake already?” Sometimes, especially when his own thoughts are scattered, this fatherhood thing still feels awkward to him.

“Uh-huh?”

He wraps an arm around her, realising as he does that it’s more for his stability and need for affection than hers, but at that moment, he doesn’t mind. They’ve been there for one another; they’re a team.

“I had a dream that you found me a new mommy,” Trucy tells him as they walk through to the kitchen. “But I didn’t like her and I was mad with you and it made me sad.”

“It’s okay—it was only a dream.” _Sheesh_ , he’s thinking, realising now that Trucy’s inadvertently high-lighted two issues with him getting ahead of himself and feeling romantic towards Kristoph—what would happen if they _did_ start dating? What would Trucy think of her dreams of a new mommy dashed to hell and what would happen if she didn’t _like_ Kristoph? Not that that would be an issue—everyone liked Kristoph—he was wonderfully patient, good with children and animals, charming, attentive, attract—

She rubs her eyes. “Is Mr. Edgeworth coming back?” she asks with a yawn. “You seem lonely today, Daddy.” It’s such a typically careless observation, but Trucy does that, it’s part of her ability to read people; she does it without consideration. And at nine years old, she also has the childish naivete which causes her to sometimes blurt out exactly what’s on her mind when it occurs to her. Ordinarily, and when her daddy is far more awake, it’s endearing. At the moment, it’s annoying.

“I’m fine, honey,” he says quickly, ignoring the now awake and inquiring look on his daughter’s face. “And Mr. Edgeworth won’t be coming back... I know you liked him, and he liked you. But he’s had to go overseas on some important business—“

Trucy gives him the kind of expression that lets him know that she doesn’t believe him, but she’s prepared to change the subject all the same. Sometimes grownups don’t tell the truth but sometimes the truth is too confusing on a Saturday morning.

“Do we have orange juice?” she asks vaguely.

At least that’s a question Phoenix can answer, and he opens the refrigerator door with a flourish and a smile. “Sure do,” he says.

For the millionth time, he’s grateful for Trucy’s warmth and distraction. When he can’t deal with grownup problems, he can at least try to sort out the anthills of family life.

 

 

He awaits the next Friday evening with a growing eagerness. Throughout the week, Kristoph has not tried to contact him, and since their Friday evening routine is stock standard, and it seems that Kristoph will show up on time at the Borscht Bowl, Phoenix doesn’t bother attempting to call past the office to see him. He keeps trying to remind himself that _Kristoph_ is the one doing him favours here, it’s him taking time out of _his_ busy schedule, that to trouble or burden him would be unfair. But he cannot help but miss him; a longing that’s only intensified when Edgeworth calls one afternoon—at a more reasonable hour this time, at least—for a friendly chat.

 

It’s Thursday afternoon, in that gap of time between lunchtime and the after-school pickup. Phoenix has been hoping that perhaps Kristoph would suggest lunch over the course of the week, but the hope’s faded gradually with each day. It’s _Thursday:_ Kristoph will be seeing him tomorrow night—a lunch date now seems unlikely.

When the phone rings, he grabs it, not even considering that it will be Edgeworth’s voice on the other end of the line. And when it _is_ , he’s startled. There’s a slight accent forming, something not quite European, not quite Scandinavian—he’s not sure what it is, but it doesn’t quite sound like Edgeworth any more.

It’s when they slip easily into conversation; it’s friendly and light-hearted—and Phoenix politely inquires about the new beau—that he realises something important: gone is the awkwardness he felt last time when they spoke.

“It’s quite peculiar, actually, Wright,” Edgeworth tells him in that sharp, formal-sounding voice now tinged with another tongue; “I think I’m starting to adapt to being treated as well as I am. Perhaps old age is making me sentimental.” A joke, of course; Edgeworth had harboured a close-to-neurotic fear of growing old, and it certainly wasn't something he joked about.

“What do you mean?” Phoenix chuckles. “You couldn’t _deal_ with romantic gestures.” He wonders, with humour rather than bitterness, how the hell Colias proposed to him—did he have a list of logical reasons why they should get married which Edgeworth considered with a serious face, weighing up the arguments before he said “Yes”?

“Colias is insistent—initially I almost felt guilty at the attention he lavished upon me. I found the gifts and the holidays and all the rest of it embarrassing and excessive.” There’s an awkwardness in his voice, he sounds close to apologetic. “It has, I’ll admit, made me realise how poorly I behaved towards you when you tried... to be... more demonstrative in your affections than I was used to.” It’s funny, the way Phoenix can see him frowning at the pause, considering his words. “I’d like to say that I’m sorry for what I put you through when we were involved—in my defence might I suggest that a great deal of that likely had to do with my own psychology; with a sense of not deserving things unless I performed flawlessly or—“

“Edgeworth.” Phoenix cuts him off. “I don’t need an explanation.” He smiles fondly; it’s such a typically Edgeworth thing to do; to offer a logical basis for emotional reactions. “I realised early on that you weren’t one for grand romantic gestures, and I tried not to inconvenience you too much—“

Edgeworth chuckles to himself. “Having seen Colias dealing with me, I’m starting to realise just how difficult I was to deal with,” he says. He sounds humbled and apologetic. “I’m—I mean it, Wright—I can’t believe what I put you through.” Despite what’s starting to creep towards an apology and the obvious embarrassment in his voice, he still maintains his dignity.

“You didn’t put me through anything, Edgeworth—nothing I wasn’t really expecting from you anyway.” Perhaps that’s a lie. Maybe there _were_ times when he thought bitterly to himself that Edgeworth was colder than the inside of his in-need-of-defrosting freezer, but he’d never blamed him for it, just accepted it as part of the complete package. And perhaps Edgeworth’s criticisms of him were perfectly valid: after all, wasn’t he the one getting depressed and wistful after Kristoph’s late night departure? It wasn’t that it had meant anything, had it? A normal person would have thanked his lucky stars for the incredible sex and moved on.

“I’m beginning to think that I did,” Edgeworth says regretfully—“And for that, I’m truly sorry.”

Phoenix can feel himself tensing, but he hopes his voice doesn’t give anything away. It all feels like a lost opportunity now, and it’s frustrating. Part of him is happy for Edgeworth; he wonders how he looks, happy and satisfied and being taken care of—another, darker and more base level of him longs to know why it had to be this Colias to bring that out in him, why it couldn’t have been _him._

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says flippantly. And before he can rationalise why, he adds a modifier. “We’re still friends, aren’t we—I’ve even started seeing someone.”

“Oh?” Edgeworth doesn’t sound bitter. He sounds curious.

“He’s—remember that defense attorney who stood up for me at the panel—“

“Kristoph Gavin—Klavier Gavin’s brother.” Edgeworth isn’t asking a question, he knows exactly whom is being referred to, and suddenly his voice is unimpressed and curt.

“That’s the one—well, it’s funny—it’s been more than two years and—“

Edgeworth suddenly mumbles to himself. It’s a frustrated and cautious sound.

“ _What_?”

“I just wonder why he took so long to come around to you, Wright—I—I don’t know.”

Suddenly irriated— after all, _he's_  been happy for Edgeworth's new relationship, _right?_ , Phoenix jokes maybe a little too caustically: “Perhaps he has more emotional hang-ups than you do.”

“I’d find that hard to believe,” Edgeworth says gruffly. “And they never _did_ find out who set you up in that trial, did they?” He pauses. “Have things changed between you—perhaps he wants a way to keep you closer—these weekly meetings seemed to be more methodical in nature rather than casually friend—“

Suddenly, Phoenix is angry. Perhaps it’s irritation with the situation at hand, that perhaps he is in over his head if he’s waiting for a call and another lunch date from Kristoph, perhaps it’s that he wonders _could Kristoph be trying to ring me right now_?, and perhaps it’s fear that perhaps Edgeworth is correct, and maybe it’s too early to make mention that he’s _seeing someone_ when maybe what happened last week was just a regrettable one-night stand.

Or maybe it’s that he had to bite back his own feelings about Edgeworth’s involvement with someone else, and now the other man’s conduct is looking suspiciously jealous.

“That’s hilarious, Edgeworth, coming from you.” There’s a viciousness in his reply. “Are you saying that the rules of partnership and whatever else this is apply to everyone else... —I mean, it took  _you_ long enough to suggest that you liked me— and while everyone _else_ is supposed to be acting _normally,_ _you_ don’t have to?”

“I’m not saying that at all. But I’m saying that something seems off about it; it puzzles me that he has spent two years not giving any indication that—“ And then there’s another silence, followed by an attack Phoenix only hopes isn't sincere. “You weren’t seeing him while _we_ were in the throes of breaking up, were you?”

“I _wasn’t_. Give me more credit than that, Edgeworth.” He’s angry, but still feeling a need to defend his reputation. And the only thing he knows Edgeworth will respond to is cool-headed logic. “And if we _were_ , I’d like to ask you how I managed to conduct an entire secret relationship behind your back if I was spending so much time with you and Trucy.” He sighs. “Trucy hadn’t even _met_ him until just recently.”

“So there _has_ been a change in events?” Edgeworth is sounding exasperated now. “What’s happened?”

“My routine’s changed,” he says simply. “I now have a different career path.”

“Oh?”

“I _did_ find myself a job not long after my disbarment—it wasn’t long after you’d headed overseas, actually—“ Can he help the anger rising into his voice? The implication that Edgeworth would know about the job if he’d bothered staying around—or had even _asked:_  “I play the piano at the Borscht Bowl.”

He can practically _see_ Edgeworth’s eyebrows raising, unconvinced, and if he weren’t so angry and feeling so cornered, he’d have smiled. “I play cards, too. Poker.”

“So you’ve gone from being one of the best lawyers in Los Angeles to being a card shark?”

“One of the best card sharks in the country,” Phoenix snaps back, defensive.

“And now your routine has changed—now that you’re _card sharking_ , Kristoph Gavin decides he needs to spend more intimate time with you?—My logic suggests this isn’t coincidence— I don’t trust him.”

“Well I do.” He recalls Kristoph’s nervousness, the tentative movements and gestures, the way he did everything so carefully. “Imagine if I’d had similar suspicions about _you_.”

“You trust people too easily, Wright.”

“If I didn’t trust people, I would be useless as a defense attorney.”

“Well—“ And that’s where Edgeworth stops, realising that he’s gone too far. But he doesn’t need to suffix that statement with what Phoenix, who knows him too well, knows he’s about to say—  _you’re_ not _a defense attorney any more, are you, Wright?_

Phoenix is shaking at his end of the phone line, bristling, suddenly prepared for a fight. “Why did you ring me?” he snaps. “If all you were going to do was—“ He freezes, hostile and furious. Did Edgeworth just ring him to _gloat_? To talk about how _wonderful_ his life was while his own seemed to be even more confusing and messed up than it was before Edgeworth left? A horrible consideration runs through his mind, backed up by evidence. “You know, I haven’t seen anything about Colias on the news, either—and I’ve been watching the _world news_. I was waiting to see something, possibly hoping to catch a glimpse of you—but—I’ve seen Colias in a political sense—“ _He looks like he’d smile if his ass was on fire_ , he thinks bitterly—“But _nothing_ about any kind of _involvement_ —“

“We’ve been good at making sure the media focuses on what’s important: the political, not the personal.”

“I thought the political _was_ personal.”

“Cohdopia is in a state of recovery,” Edgeworth sniffs. “It would not be prudent to complicate matters with details of a major political figure’s personal life. If he’s to win the forthcoming election, anything which might be seen as controversial should be kept out of the media spotlight.”

“But if he was marrying a _woman_ , she’d be standing next to him for every photo opportunity available, wouldn’t she?”

Edgeworth doesn’t answer for what feels like a long time. Maybe he’s considering what he says before he does. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time,” he says slowly— “And, Wright— contrary to what you may believe, I still care for you.”

Phoenix hasn’t calmed, rather his response is cold and trite. “ _Right._ Always nice to know that, Edgeworth.”

“Just— be careful.” Despite the irritation: Edgeworth _always_ found it irritating to be argued with once his mind was secured on something— there’s concern in his voice.  But he’s given up, and Phoenix is confronted, a moment later, with the consistent bleep of the dial tone.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It feels like Friday evening takes an age to arrive. After Trucy’s show, Phoenix is wound up and distracted, excited about the prospect of finally seeing Kristoph and hopefully getting some type of explanation for his lack of contact during the week. He’s not sure if he’s curious or angry; but there’s an energy that prickles there, something that makes him wonder if things may just start out on an awkward note and finish up... _unexpectedly_.

But when Kristoph arrives, on time as usual, he’s perfectly composed and unruffled.

“Good evening.” There’s that subtle smile and his voice is a beautifully warm purr. Nothing out of the ordinary, but nothing to offer any _hope_ , either. He’s the same man he was before anything had happened between them.

“Hello.” Phoenix can’t quite hide the— it’s confusion in his voice rather than anger, he realises.

“Is something the problem?” 

“I just—” He watches as Trucy, familiar with the staff at the Borscht Bowl, race over to one of the waiters to say hello and tell him about her show. Turning his attention back to Kristoph, he eyes him carefully, trying to read his face. “I just thought it was strange not to see you again after—”

Kristoph’s smile changes then. “I apologise,” he says, with very little indicating an apology. “I’m a very busy man, Phoenix.”

“How’s work?”

He hopes Kristoph will change the subject, bring them around to talking about the more serious and immediate. He’s noticed the awkwardness Kristoph seems to have about discussing his cases. But Kristoph looks bored, telling him that work has been work, he’s been busy, his assistant is starting to develop into a very good investment after all— it’s casual, air-filling conversation.

“How’s— everything else?”

“I’ve been all right.” Phoenix watches as he brushes that blonde fringe out of his eyes distractedly. He isn’t going to say any more. And maybe it’s desperation, maybe it’s hopelessness, maybe it’s the fact that all week he’s been thinking about this man and the previous Friday, but Phoenix cannot help but make an offer. “Would you care for another coffee after I’ve finished up here?”

“Perhaps.” The word is tantalising and suggestive as he says it, and there's a faint hint of a smile gracing his lips. “I did enjoy last week.”

Phoenix doesn’t know why he feels as uncomfortable as he does now: this is, in some ways, even more confusing and difficult than when he was pursuing Edgeworth. Edgeworth was emotionally stunted, but he had his reasons. He didn’t seem to relish being difficult— it was just _what he was_. Whereas Kristoph seems strangely triumphant about it.

Phoenix can only remember his hesitation and his warning—  _I’m damaged—_  and he wonders what damage he’s survived.

 

For a Friday evening, the Borscht Bowl is surprisingly quiet, and even Kristoph seems to notice the absence of other patrons in the room. But when the doorbell tinkles and the waiter talking to Trucy looks up, about to greet the new customer— before relaxing when another staff member answers, Kristoph slips a twenty towards Phoenix with a knowing smile.

“How about a game of cards?” he asks.

Which is strange, and which makes him think about Edgeworth’s cynicism: he’d never asked for a game of poker before— that had been Phoenix's suggestion in the past; a coy, surreptious move towards doing  _something_ with Kristoph if words grew awkward and the blonde seemed flighty. Money had never changed hands for the games, not even as a joke. But maybe this is yet another subtle shift in their dynamic, perhaps it’s progress towards further intimacy with Kristoph, and at the very least, they’ll have a degree of privacy in the Hydeout... assuming Trucy talks to the waiter for awhile.

Turning around before answering, Phoenix sees the back of a balding head and a white shirt as the customer is escorted to a nearby table. And he’s forgotten the man as he casts a careful eye at Trucy, talking animatedly to the waiter behind the counter— and she jumps up, waving goodbye and accompanying them downstairs. _Damn._

 

The Hydeout is his domain. Sure, the Borscht Bowl has other poker players, but _he’s_ the one with the reputation, and he smiles at his daughter as he and Kristoph take their seats across the table from one another. Kristoph seems weirdly uncomfortable as he sits, like he’s seen a ghost; and Phoenix smiles. He and Trucy usually have a... connection of sorts, where she makes a _face_ , indicating the other player’s feelings or hand. It’s not technically cheating; she’s not revealing any cards; to anyone else in the room she’s just a little girl doing her homework and making sure no one cheats. What kind of father would cheat in front of his daughter, anyway?

What kind of father would have such a deep connection with his daughter that they could practically read one another’s minds?

Trucy’s smiling back at him: they’re on the same page; Kristoph is nervous. But this is just another game he’ll win, another notch on the belt, it’s just a friendly way of killing time between two friends who don’t want to discuss what _else_ is going on between them. Trucy’s presence isn’t essential here; Phoenix knows he can see through Kristoph like he’s made of glass: it’s the one time he feels like he can.

And as much as he hates to admit it, as lewd as it feels with his daughter sitting across the room from him, it excites him. In the same way the thought of Kristoph revealing some side of himself unwittingly during acts of lovemaking, he likes that raw, human reality of seeing him nervous and uncomfortable.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” he says. He’s trying to keep his voice steady, and he obviously disguises his fear with anger. It makes sense, of course; Kristoph likes everything in order, he likes his control. Leaving things up to chance isn’t his style. “Are you going to deal?”

“No,” Phoenix says. “I have people who do that for me, here. Should you wish for them to remain in the room, they can— should you not—” there’s a suggestive hint in his own voice— a hint at something scandalous— even though it’s rare for patrons to want their privacy. Rather, they want witnesses, so the great Phoenix Wright doesn’t cheat behind closed doors, and so no one gets accused of gambling. The gamblers and the others— they _have_ arrived and asked the dealers to leave once the cards are down— but those ones usually turn up in the middle of the day.  There are too many people around on a typical Friday night to risk detection.

“Do you ever play more than cards in here?” Kristoph asks, amused, relaxing.

“I entertain the patrons of this fine establishment,” Phoenix offers noncommittally, relishing the way he’s able to confuse Kristoph with open-ended answers.

From across the room, Trucy stands up. “I’ll go get the dealer?” she asks. From the table, her father nods. “Sure,” he says, smiling at her, and turning to Kristoph when the door shuts.

“Anyone would think she knew we needed privacy,” Kristoph muses. “For a few fleeting moments, at least.”

“I’ve missed you,” Phoenix mutters. He can’t hide the irritation in his voice. “I know we’ve known one another for years, and it’s always been awkward between us, and both of us have our problems and scars from our former lives, but—”

Kristoph’s smile is shocked, slightly openmouthed and _bothered_. He doesn’t say anything as Phoenix continues.

“Last week was the first time something felt like it was going _right_ in my life,” he mutters. He regrets it, and feels the hot flush of defeat in his cheeks, frustratingly before the game of cards has begun. Perhaps he can treat it like a bluff, a display of submission, something to temper Kristoph’s nerves and catch him unawares when he thinks he’s got the upper hand.

“ _Really?”_ Kristoph still sounds nervous, but he’s smiling a little. “I enjoyed it, too, I must admit. And I do feel that part of my enjoyment was seeing _you_ like that, Phoenix.”

“I know things have been chaotic over the past few years,” Phoenix admits, hoping the dealer and Trucy won’t return before he’s had time to say what he needs to— “But over the last week I’ve only been aware of one thing— and that’s— how much I’ve missed not having you around when I’ve been lonely.”

Kristoph blinks, his skin paling, his hands linked together under the table. He looks terrified, Phoenix thinks, mentally chastising himself for doing exactly what Edgeworth always said he did— coming on too strong and demonstrative. Kristoph was not at all dissimilar to Edgeworth, either— only Edgeworth would have squirmed and looked away at such a confession rather than stared at him, corners of his mouth downturned, eyes unhappy, fingernails clawed into his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he continues. “I just—”

Kristoph’s face softens slightly. “Do you remember what I told you last week?” he asks, his voice still smooth, but distant.

Phoenix nods. “I don’t care,” he murmurs. “ _Everyone_ is damaged to some degree.”

“I just have a very difficult time allowing myself to trust another to get close to me,” Kristoph continues. “It wouldn’t be fair to you, Phoenix. It probably wouldn’t be fair to me, either.”

“I—” He wants to tell Kristoph that he doesn’t care, that he’ll wait, that he can live without sex if that’s what is required— he’s done that before, he wants to say, remembering some of Edgeworth’s vague allusions to things which had occurred during his earlier years— it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want the dates and the involvement, he just wants _Kristoph_ , now that he’s aware Kristoph wants _him_. He wants a body to lavish with attention, he wants to stimulate its brain with humour and thought-provoking conversation. He wants to spend a couple of nights a week curled up next to him, with an arm draped over him, fingers combing absently through that glorious hair, a hand resting on his smooth and perfect skin, lips exploring everything until he’s sated and exhausted and at ease enough to find sleep. He doesn’t just want casual sex, he realises, he wants the whole package, he wants to share Kristoph’s life and for Kristoph to share his.

 _And that was precisely what made Edgeworth go away,_ he thinks glumly to himself—  _because my life is a mess—_   but he refuses to dwell on the reminder, because doing that would then cause him to think about the fact that _now_ , Edgeworth is settling into something serious with that golden-haired Cohdopian punce—

“I realise you have kind intentions, Phoenix, but... my life has become complicated.” Kristoph’s voice is an apology.

“ _Life_ is complication,” Phoenix murmurs, insistent and refusing to give up. “And my life has always been about being attracted to complication.” He smiles, fingering the toggle on the end of the cord around his hoodie. “Dollie was complicated, simple as she seemed— Edgeworth was complicated—”

“Phoenix, those are two examples. That’s hardly a wide enough sample—”

“I’m _interested_ in complication,” he continues, stubbornly ignoring Kristoph’s shutdown— “Even when I’ve been attracted to people— that stuffy chemistry student at Ivy U; my first boss— do you think _their_ lives weren’t complicated?” He can feel heat rising into his cheeks and up to his forehead. It’s stupid: he’s been engaged into an argument, it’s facts and logic against theory. And he’s going to win.

“I know nothing of either of these people,” Kristoph says coolly.

“The boy at university— he never liked me but I was privately fascinated:  the only time he attempted to seek me out was to warn me about Dollie, who killed him— and my boss—  _Mia—_  Mia _Fey—_  I challenge you to find some aspect of _her_ life which wasn’t complicated.”

Defeated, Kristoph folds his hands into themselves and smiles. “Suppose I said that I don’t date bisexuals?”

“I’d propose that such prejudice doesn’t fit someone of your intelligence.” Phoenix cannot help but smile.

“What about someone with a _dependant_?”

That’s the one which pulls on his heart strings for a moment.

“I’m still searching for Trucy’s family,” he says. “Trucy may not always be my dependent.” He despises himself for what feels like a betrayal, and regrets the words once he’s said them. _No_. Trucy has wriggled her way into his life, his former office, his bloodstream. His moments of dangling loneliness and that awful sense of everyone important in his life, every possible connection he could make, being blown away into the distance like dandelion spores, is responsible for that, not what he truly feels.

“One could argue that you have dependants, too,” he says cuttingly. “You’ve mentioned before a close relationship with Klavier— the man responsible for my downfall.”

It feels funny saying those words, because he’s not quite believing them as they leave his mouth. Klavier feels like a smokescreen, a convenient excuse which he’s allowed to take the blame for his disbarment, and bringing him up now and seeing that exposed, unexpected look on Kristoph’s face seems almost worth the simple half-truth.

Kristoph changes the subject and sighs. “We are getting nowhere, Phoenix,” he says tepidly. “And... I shall admit, you intrigue me— and I am not _un_ attracted to you— as evidenced by last Friday’s activity— but...” He trails off uncertainly, and Phoenix searches his face for clues. “My enormous trust issues are an obstacle and one of the complications in my life at the moment— I still feel like you have some residual attachment to that prosecutor—”

“Edgeworth is getting married,” he says in monotone. “Having feelings for him would be pointless.” His voice is cold and blunt. “I’m _over_ him, Kristoph.”

“But feelings are never practical, they seldom have a _point_ , and they’re more often than not perfectly destructive.” He smiles sadly, and Phoenix feels his own heart breaking. It‘s true and it’s devastating; it’s the realisation that Edgeworth isn’t just physically and emotionally gone, but that Phoenix himself isn’t even the wispy remains of the smoke of an extinguished candle to _him._ Somehow the world seemed better when he still loved Edgeworth, whether or not that love was truly reciprocated; and the recognition that he’s become so invested in Kristoph is like a stamp under a signature, cancelling out that former infatuation.

In the same way that the marriage certificate to be signed by both Palaeno and Edgeworth will be, too, he reminds himself. It’s _over._  

“I’m not letting Edgeworth, in any capacity, make my life any _worse_ ,” Phoenix says angrily. “He’s gone, he’s happy, I won’t see him again unless he’s on the news with his husband and they’re Cohdopia’s hip new gay power couple or something— but I don’t want _him_.” He sighs. “That chapter has ended, Kristoph—”

“And you’d wish to start writing a new story with me?” He hears a smirk in the other man’s voice. “Truly, you can be far too predictable sometimes.”

Perhaps he _was_ going to say something like that. Maybe Kristoph’s poetic and flamboyant description when making an argument was rubbing off on him. Or maybe he’s just the pathetic romantic Edgeworth always found it humiliating to be around. Under the table, he pushes his feet into the floor, like he’s anchoring himself there, fighting the urge to stand up with an extended arm and an almighty objection. Some reactions become instinctual, and perhaps that one has.

Something flickers in Kristoph’s eyes then. “Another part of my complicated life involves another actor in this sorry charade,” he admits.

“ _Who_?” If jealousy was what he was aiming for, he knows in that moment he’s succeeded.

Kristoph sighs, pushing his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking haughty and distracted and positively irritated with having to admit to it.

“My sweet little assistant,” he admits.

“What was his name again? It was something weird, wasn’t it?”

“ _Justice_ ,” Kristoph corrects him. “Apollo Justice.”

“Pardon the pun,” Phoenix says dryly, “but he’s barely legal.”

“He turns eighteen in a few weeks,” Kristoph says slowly. “And over the years I’ve gotten to know and appreciate his service and companionship, and now I have a slight inkling that he might have developed an interest in me.”

“As his employer, or as something else?” Phoenix hates the jealousy he can hear in his own voice. Once again, it feels like his life has been turned upside down by some random stranger, some mystery man— only this time it’s before he’s even had a _chance_.

“I do believe he was quite clumsily attempting to flirt with me,” Kristoph says. “And you wouldn’t be the first one to make a bad pun and the observation that he’s not legal yet.”

 _So he’s said that, has he?_ Phoenix only vaguely remembers meeting the kid in the office that day years ago— that was Justice, wasn't it?—his clumsiness and his juvenile face. He recalls Kristoph’s lewd insinuation that Phoenix may have found him attractive, and his own revulsion at the fact that Apollo was clearly a _kid._ In the past two-and-a-bit years, however, he knows nothing of the young man; he’s barely been mentioned by Kristoph in their meetings and games and flirtations, and now that he has, Phoenix finds himself wishing he’d just... _left_ , years ago and been replaced with another perky-faced hopeful wanting to be the next big thing in criminal law.

He wants to make the observation that it would be predatory and unprofessional for Kristoph to act upon the idea. But it’s not something unheard of in the industry, he thinks, irritated with the way an old drunken Edgeworth confession comes to mind, and it’s not like Kristoph wouldn’t already realise that anyway.

 

They’re saved by the door opening and Trucy wandering through, her magician’s hat bulging oddly as though Mr. Hat has been recently compacted back in there, an enthusiastic grin on her face. Standing next to her is one of the hosts of the restaurant, looking apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Daddy—” Trucy chirps— “It took me awhile to find someone to deal for you; they’ve opened that new place across the road tonight, so business is slow— a few of the waiters have even gone home because it’s so boring and they have nothing to do on the floor and no one to talk to.”

That didn’t explain why they’d been gone for so long.

“Did you show off your repertoire?” Phoenix asks suspiciously. The blush in Trucy’s cheeks and the widening smile confirms his suspicions.

“I had to liven things up,” she says. “And the waiters really got into them and—”

“She’s _good_.” The host smiles, and Phoenix can’t help but join him.

“Trucy, we’ve talked about how you can’t perform here,” he says patiently— “That’s what having a contract at the Wonder Bar means— you have to keep the act there, exclusively— we talked about that—”

“I _know—_  but there’s really no one out there and it was just the waiters and the hosts, so I figured it was just a way of advertising what I do in my full set at the Wonder Ba—”

“And my customer and I have been waiting—”

“Customer?” Trucy asks, cynical. “It’s just Mr. Gav—”

“Trucy, he is _still_ my customer, and I think he has things to do later on; we can’t keep my customers waiting—”

“It’s not a problem,” Kristoph says amicably. “Children should be allowed to show off their talents.”

He smiles at Trucy then; it’s the first time they’ve really interacted, and there’s a heartbreaking warmth about it. He’s patient. His earlier concern about dependants may have just been a bluff, judging from the way he’s smiling at Trucy now, amused and interested.

“Perhaps you could show me some of your magic tricks one day?”

“Not in here, though: Friday nights at the Wonder Bar— Before Daddy comes here to play.”

Kristoph chuckles to himself, and Phoenix feels his body tense up at the unfairness of it all. In his mind’s eye, he can see the three of them, a happy trio, bantering back and forth, Kristoph patiently ignoring their disagreements and being charmed by Trucy, Phoenix later chastising him for taking her side, Kristoph denying doing so and encouraging him to think about how strict he is... it would be perfect.

Except that Kristoph doesn’t want that, so it never will be.

 

The cards are shuffled and the room is tense with an odd silence.

Phoenix predictably wins the hand; Kristoph excuses himself soon afterwards, apologising for other arrangements and stating that he doesn’t wish to hold up others who’d arranged to meet up with him; and Phoenix, Trucy and a few lonely waitstaff are left in the Borscht Bowl, on the slowest, dullest night the restaurant has ever seen.

It was the first proper, professional game of cards they played together, and it should have been a milestone. Instead, it has fizzled from memory like a shattered teenage crush.

 

 

Phoenix knows what he wants when Trucy is tucked in bed and safely asleep.

He also knows that he can’t _have_ what he wants, and he stares out the window into the night sky at the ever-expanding Gatewater hotel across the road, the glow of lights and the tiny figures on the streets below.

There are couples. There are friends. Groups of people mingle together, heading down the road towards the strip shops and the swanky restaurants; somewhere to the west is the gay quarter where men will be meeting in bars, finding love or release for the evening, where couples will be dining out together, where tentative first dates will happen perhaps to fade into obscurity and tales told on Saturday evening to other friends; or where first impressions might be too hasty and where relationships might blossom.

Phoenix cannot see any of this, but he knows that it’s there, and that it’s off-limits to him. He isn’t sure if he misses the nightlife, the feeling of being single and able to hit the streets in carefree abandon, or if it’s something else— the sex, obviously— but the sense that he still has enough optimism left in him to throw his cards to the wind and leave his romantic fate in the hands of his own good taste and Lady Luck’s hands.

Perhaps it’s the feeling of connectedness, of having an adult social life to pursue.

Glancing in the direction of Trucy’s bunk, he sighs: he can’t resent her, but the loss of freedom, the way that spontaneous dating is now out of the question, as are casual hookups— it’s frustrating.

The one thing he doesn’t miss —and he tries to console himself with this thought— is the competition, the expected lack of pursuit of others, the letdowns, the prospects of inviting trouble into his life— and the potential humiliation of desperately remaining in a venue long after he should have left, still drinking and hoping to be propositioned by someone appealing, the realisation that it won’t happen, and the lonely and intoxicated trawl home afterwards.

He’s not someone people _pursue_ , and with added complication and responsibility, and the sweet youthful naivete and his career and status _gone_ , he isn’t a tempting catch on the meat market any more. He realises this and wants it to bring him comfort.

When it doesn’t, he uncorks a bottle from the crate (which the manager gave him at a steal in lieu of part of his paycheck), and he drinks, hoping to erase the pervasive thought that he doesn’t really want casual hookups, to pursue and be pursued in a club packed with bodies and thumping with music. All he wants is as simple as it is unattainable: for someone he is attracted to and hopeful about to be similarly attracted to and hopeful about further prospects with _him_.

He falls asleep on the sofa, his mouth stained with the crushed velvet of red wine residue, and the beginnings of a headache appearing just before dawn and exhaustion consume him.

 

 

When the phone rings the next morning, Phoenix is hesitant to answer it: who’d call on a Saturday morning? Two thoughts occur to him: it could be Edgeworth, ringing to tactlessly talk about his wonderful new relationship— because Edgeworth is incapable of apologising for anything— or it could be debt collectors ringing about that overdue electricity bill, hoping to catch him at home and off-guard due to the fact that it’s a Saturday morning, and not during the regular nine-to-five work week. If it had been Larry, it would have been a clusmy partially-still-intoxicated mistake— and the phone wouldn't have rung more than once.

He’s surprised and pleased— and he smiles in spite of the thumping headache and the slight nausea— when he realises that he recognises the voice on the other end.

“Nick!”

He remembers when he was up in the mountains the first time: something about the air there, the atmosphere of the place— seemed to make you wake up early and perky. There was no “wrong side of the bed” to wake up on, because there _were_ no beds, just spartan bamboo thatched mats on the floor for sleeping. Maya saw nothing wrong with ringing just after she’d woken, and the time delay between his city life and Kurain meant she was probably up an hour earlier than he was.

“Hi, Maya.”

He can already see the way her forehead wrinkles and her mouth turns down. “You don’t sound so good, Nick,” she says carefully. “How is ...everything?”

Maya only knows about what happened because it became unavoidable. Trucy was partially to blame for that, and indeed, one of his motivations in remaining in contact with Maya had been because of the little girl he’d taken in.

Maya hadn’t been one to judge, and she’d offered Phoenix help with anything he required. Which had been great— there was one thing he’d wanted from Maya, which only she could help him with— but he often felt that Maya wanted to do more, and was frustrated by his inability to ask for more. But Phoenix hated the idea of feeling reliant on her or anyone else— he’d always been like that, happy to accept what was offered, but without making requests of his own. His disbarrment had resulted in a heavily wounded ego, and the idea of expecting his friends to pick up after _his_ mess was humiliating.

“I’m okay,” he admits quietly.

Realising that the truth was far from that, but being tactful enough not to push any further, Maya changes the subject. She’s learned well enough over the years that Phoenix didn’t talk about things unless he wanted to, and that he was stubborn when it came to admitting his own vulnerability. While she worried, there was little else she could do than focus on the positive and have faith that her ex-boss would somehow manage to pull through.

“Are you still making your annual pilgrimage up here?”

He nods, before realising that she can’t see that— “Yes. Of course.”

“Great! I can’t wait to show you what we’ve done up here; we extended a couple of the guest houses to accommodate more tourists, we’ve now got a cable car running over to the other side of the mountain for sight-seeing and a historical tour— and— there’s something better—”

He’s happy to hear the enthusiasm in her voice; that was always one of Maya’s strengths, he thinks: her unbridled optimism and ability to keep other people’s spirits up. She’d managed to do that in court, giving him faith in himself when he felt his hope in victory fading fast. She’d pulled through for her cousin after the events at Hazakura three years ago. Maya may have had spiritual powers greater than anyone Phoenix had known, but her true power, her real gift— was that way she could shed light into what seemed like an impossible and unwinnable situation. Her older sister had possessed a similar ability.

He waits for her to reveal the good news, knowing that with Maya’s exuberance and lack of concern for common conventions, the news could be just about anything. “The producers of _Samurai Dreaming_ wants to know if they can film up here!” She can barely contain the excitement in her voice.

There’s warmth and familiarity in the _Samurai_ TV shows for Phoenix, though he never became completely obsessed in the way Maya— or overly interested, in the way Edgeworth— did. Still, for Maya, he realises that’s a feat worthy of celebration.

“That’s one reason I called,” she admits. “I still want to see you and Trucy— she’s still with you, isn’t she—?”

“Yes,” he says.

Maya suddenly realises what’s happened. “And— Mr. Edgeworth _isn’t_?”

“Nailed it.” And he always thought that he could keep details about Edgeworth vague, that since Maya hadn't asked about him, that she'd just assumed he was still there, Edgeworth wouldn't be mentioned. The idea of him could have lived on in a way. Not any more.

He can tell from the choked kind of noise she makes that she _wasn’t_ expecting that one.

“I thought they’d taken Trucy from you since— you know— the not working thing and—”

He runs with that, avoiding the subject of Edgeworth. “I _am_ working, Maya— probably earning more now than I was when we were back in the office.” He chuckles, only wondering after he has if that could sound more like a choked sniffle over the end of the phone line.

“Or I was worried you _had_ found out about Trucy’s parents— that she was leaving because she was going back to her real fam—”

“No. I still don’t know what’s happening there.” He has hope. Something in his mind tells him that they can’t be dead— but perhaps it’s the pessimist realising that just as soon as he’s realised how attached he’s become to Trucy, she’ll be reunited with her parents and he’ll have to say goodbye. He wants to, needs to know what the reality is. Because he needs closure and understanding, and so does Trucy.

“Are you two going to visit and we can... try to find out?”

“Thankyou.”

 

 

It’s becoming tradition; it was around this time last year when Maya had called out of the blue and made the suggestion after hearing the full story; about that disastrous case which had cost Phoenix his badge and gained him a dependant. Together, one evening while Trucy slept, they talked over the phone about what had happened, and Maya had tried to be sensitive about the prospect of bad news. “What will you do if her parents are both _dead_?”

When Phoenix had answered, “I don’t even know if they _are_ ,” that was when Maya had the idea. “That much,” she’d said, “I can try to find out at least.”

With a few details and a description, they’d journeyed up to Kurain, and with Trucy occupied in the next building, Maya and Phoenix had talked as old friends working on a problem. They didn’t want Trucy to be there when the channelling was attempted in case Thalassa or Zak _were_ channelled— the unexpected surprise of seeing one’s dead parents through a medium would disturb an adult— let alone a little girl who’d already been through so much, they agreed.

 

He believes they’re still alive. If they aren’t, he forces himself to believe, Maya would have channelled either of them, and Phoenix could be trying to work out how to explain the truth to Trucy. At least with channelling, he thinks, he can control when and how the information gets to Trucy, he can break it to her with kindness and sensitivity.

He doesn’t want to think of her parents being dead, but he realises that he also doesn’t want to give up the child who is becoming his daughter.

 

 

 

Maya is of course, overjoyed to see them, and she rushes about excitedly, showing them the new buildings (“But you’re not staying in the tourist house,” she says, “That’s for paying guests”—and Phoenix isn’t sure whether to take that as a mark of affection and respect or an observation of his current financial state). She shows them the cable car and proposes a day of sight-seeing starting the next morning, and she points out where Global Studios will be setting up for filming in the coming month. It’s only when they walk through a sombre little garden sparsely decorated with stones and immaculately-tended floral borders that her voice dampens into seriousness.

“Do you recognise this place?” she asks.

And Phoenix remembers that awful investigation nearly ten years ago.

“We had it re-landscaped,” she says quietly. “It’s now the Misty Fey Memorial Garden.”

Phoenix nods silently, looking at where a non-descript statue once stood, now replaced with a haunting stone replica of the woman he’d known as Elise Deauxnim. The statue stands on a piece of marble; on the marble is a plaque which he cannot read from where he’s standing. He doesn’t move any closer to it, and he’s afraid that looking at Maya might cause her to break down. He concentrates on the cherry trees in the distance.

“Spirits remember our world,” Maya says, her voice still quiet. “And this place isn’t just a garden any more.”

He nods; the vaguaries of the spirit world and Maya’s entire business up here often make little sense to him, but he understands.

“It’s a good place to sit and think sometimes.”

They walk away from the memorial garden, and guiltily, Phoenix wonders how often she’s sat and thought about his lack of contact and the mess that his life’s become.

 

Dinner is a much more cheerful affair; Maya’s asked if Phoenix wants her to gather together the “old crowd” for something special, but still not having revealed his downfall to most people, Phoenix declines the offer under the guise of preferring to have some one-on-one catchup time.

Seeing Maya is the perfect distraction, he muses; she’s still infectiously cheerful and optimistic, and she’s able to chat with him as easily as she was able to in the office those years ago, and she gets along with Trucy. Private in-jokes suddenly become shared with his adopted daughter, and Phoenix pushes from his mind the chance that this year’s annual trip will result in one of two awful outcomes after Maya’s attempt to channel Zak or Thalassa once more.

  
It’s when Trucy’s headed to bed, and when he’s mentioned doing the same, that Maya ushers him through to a new extension of the Matriarchal Manor, known as the Spirit room. Phoenix looks at the plates of thick white clusters of candles and the perfectly square zen garden in the middle of the room and then at Maya. “This is new,” he says. “I don’t remember this from last time I was here.”

“It was a storage area,” she says with a shrug. “I changed it: sometimes a Kurain Master needs her own private space for thinking.” She looks down the brightly-coloured pillows on the floor. “Have a seat.”

They sit down and Phoenix is taken with the sweet cosiness of the room, and he’s grateful for Maya allowing him in here. She looks at him and sighs. “We need to talk,” she says, and he can hear the exhaustion in her voice.

And in that moment, he’s terrified that Maya has News about Trucy’s parents.

“What’s happened?” he asks urgently.

“I worry about you, Nick,” Maya tells him. Not looking him in the eye, she gazes towards the candles at the other side of the room, their golden light mesmerising. The room is perfect for meditation—or avoidance, Phoenix thinks to himself. Not that he blames her, and he inwardly curses himself for his stupidity when it’s come to telling Maya about what’s been happening.

He wants to brush her off with casual assurances, but he knows it’s not fair to do so and that Maya will see through him probably just as well as Trucy would.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he starts to say, which is the truth even though he suspects it’s about more than Maya being _worried_. More accurately, she’s possibly _annoyed_ that he’s not told her the details. And he doesn’t know how to deal with that.

“Sis— _Mia—_  visited us the other day,” Maya says, a note of something fragile in her voice. “We haven’t been able to channel Mia for years now; we assumed she’d resolved whatever she’d needed to resolve after my mother’s death and the trial and—“

And that’s Maya’s breaking point, where she dissolves in a flood. Still sitting upright on the pillow, still looking in the direction of the candles, Phoenix feels intrusive looking at her. He can see the crystalline tears running down her face, illuminated by the glow of the candles, and the effect is surreal. And he doesn’t know what to do. He tries to hug Maya, but she doesn’t return the hug; she stiffens, and one thing feels very clear from her movement: she’s scared.

“Maya—“

“Nick, this isn’t supposed to happen,” she says through tears, her body quivering and tensing under his arms. “Mia’s come back as a warning: she didn’t stay long and she was only faint and—“ And then Maya shifts, violently, turning around to face him, her voice charged with fury. “Why on _earth_ didn’t you tell us what was happening with you?”

And he’s crying, and he’s only just realised it. He’s only very rarely seen a tearful Maya before, and hardly _ever_ seen her this angry. “We could have _helped_ you, Nick.”

“I didn’t want to be a downer,” he says softly. “I couldn’t, Maya—you were dealing with rebuilding the Kurain base, not to mention everything that had happened after Elise—your mother’s murder—I wasn’t going to freak out and come crying to you about how I stupidly fucked up and it cost me my badge.”

“You came to me to ask for help channelling those magicians, though.”

“I didn’t feel _good_ about admitting what had happened, but I didn’t have a _choice_.”

Maya’s stopped crying, but she’s still trembling. “You love Trucy,” she says, “And I care about you so much, Nick—I’ve _tried_ channelling them, but I keep turning up a big nothing—I wonder if my powers get clouded with my worry about you or with the fact that I don’t know what exactly I’m meant to be channelling.”

He nods. “Well... I thank you for trying.”

“But what if I’m _wrong_?” she asks. “What if I’m not channelling them not because they’re still alive, but because on some subconscious level I don’t _want_ to?”

“The fact that you’re _trying_ means an awful lot to me,” he says, his hug tightening. “It’s more than anyone else can do.”

“You haven’t asked Gumshoe for help?”

“Gumshoe and I aren’t close enough any more for favours like that—I don’t even know if he’s aware about Edge—“

“And what happened with that?” Maya’s no longer tearful, but irritated. “By the end of that case it was clearly obvious that there was _something_ going on between the two of you and—“ Her voice slows. “You know what I think, Nick?”

He shakes his head.

“I think Mia became unreachable because she’d said she’d always look out for you. And when you and Mister Edgeworth managed to get together, she realised that she didn’t have to.” There’s a wobble in her voice. “I think she knew you’d found your soulmate.”

“My _soulmate_ ,” Phoenix says testily, now irritated by such a foolish notion—and even more irritated when he considers that Edgeworth would be annoyed with it, too—“is marrying the man who hopes to become Cohdopia’s new president.”

Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt that much to speak those words any more. And Phoenix realises that he hasn’t told her about Kristoph, either; perhaps mentioning him will shed some hope on his situation.

Maya nods miserably. “What happened?” she asks, her voice quivering and threatening more tears.

“He couldn’t deal with me being disbarred and with Trucy living in the office with me, and he—he couldn’t deal with a lot of things. He said he needed time to think and went overseas and reconnected with someone he’d met there years ago when he had to go overseas on business.”

Maya suddenly brightens. “Have they announced their honeymoon?” she asks.

“No—I think they’re keeping it very hush-hush given that the public aren’t meant to know in case it jeopardises the election.”

Suddenly, the old Maya has reemerged, and her mouth is open, and her hands are tightly at her sides. “WHAT?”

Amongst the tranquil silence and the atmosphere, the flames of the candles seem to shake with Maya’s outrage. “Nick, this is _wrong_ ,” she says. “Edgeworth wouldn’t stand for that—he’s too _proud_.”

“He’s changed,” Phoenix says. “I wish him nothing but the very best.”

Maya eyes him skeptically. “I can’t believe you’re saying that,” she says. “You spent fifteen years obsessed with that guy and you’re letting a few things that have changed in your life get in the way of—“

“Both of us have changed,” Phoenix says diplomatically. “I’m not upset about it—why should you be?”

As though realising something, Maya’s expression of scepticism grows more pronounced. “You’re not even carrying your magatama with you any more.”

“How do you—?”

“Listen,” she says. “I’ve got a plan, Nick—we’ll get them to honeymoon over here, up in Kurain, in the guest lodge—we’ll say it’s a diplomatic invitation from the United States as a gesture of goodwill to Cohdophia’s new president or something—and we’ll convince Edgeworth that he’s making a terrible decision so he stays here with you and sorts things out.”

Baffled by both the ridiculousness of the idea and Maya’s hidden depth of sheer deviousness, Phoenix doesn’t say anything. Maya looks at him, as though daring him to refute her plan. 

“It’s okay,” he says. He remembers the comment about the magatama. “On another point: how do you know that I don’t have the magatama with me?”

“I noticed it when you came in,” she said, “But I forgot to mention it until now and I didn’t want to in front of Trucy.”

He stares at the magatama, similar to his own, around Maya’s neck. “Don’t tell me what reminded you was that you saw psychelocks?” he asks tentatively.

“I’m not saying anything,” Maya says, her voice defiant. It’s in that moment that Phoenix _knows_ she saw some degree of secrecy in his heart. Trying to remember what he’d said just before that, he suddenly does, and he takes her hand gently. “Look, Maya— _honestly—_ I’m completely over Edgeworth.”

She eyes him cynically, leaving him the perfect opening for another confession. “I’m even seeing someone else. I’ve moved on.”

Maya raises an eyebrow. “That was quick,” she says.

“He’s—a friend of mine, I guess you could say—he’s the one person—besides Trucy—who was there for me after I was disbarred and—“

“We would have been there for you, Nick,” she says softly. “If you’d let us.”

“But I _didn’t_ —“ he says through gritted teeth—“And—okay—I screwed up—I should have told you what happened—but anyway—“

Maya lets him continue.

“He was the one lawyer who sat on the panel, the _only_ one who stood up for me,” Phoenix says. “And I didn’t just hook up with him while I was seeing Edgeworth—there’s been two years of sturdy friendship and mutual support—“ _Why are you bothering embellishing the reality, Phoenix?_ he asks himself. _She’s the one with the magatama._

Maya stares at him blankly. “He’s a nice guy,” Phoenix assures her. “And for him to have stood up to an entire panel of legal professionals more decorated and senior than he is like that—that takes some integrity.”

Maya still doesn’t look convinced, but she smiles weakly. “Are you happy, Nick?” she asks.

“Reasonably so,” he says. “Sure, I could always do with a bit more cash and some more hours in the day, and I wouldn’t say no to seeing _him_ a bit more often—“ He decides to tell her the truth, wondering if she’ll craftily deduce it with a few well-placed questions and the magatama anyway. “But—Maya—he’s—he’s got issues.”

She just nods. “You always take in the people who need you the most,” she says with another smile, her eyes softening.

“He’s scared of commitment and he’s been hurt pretty badly by someone in the past—I don’t know who, and I don’t really want to do anything to them—but I think maybe I can help him through it and give him what he deserves.”

“Just like you saved Edgeworth,” Maya says.

“Perhaps—but perhaps Edgeworth and I weren’t suited to one another anyway. He was always complaining about me being foolishly sentimental and overly affectionate,” he continues. “In hindsight, I think Kristoph and I are way better suited than Edgeworth and I ever were.”

“Kristoph?”

“Yes—Kristoph Gavin—funnily enough he was competition back when I was a lawyer—“

Maya chuckles to herself. “ _Another_ prosecutor?” she asks. “What’s _with_ that, Nick?”

“He isn’t a prosecutor,” Phoenix explains. “Never has been—he was just another defense attorney, competing for business as I was.” He smiles at the thought of Kristoph. “He’s a couple of years younger than me but has a reputation for being the coolest defence in the West.”

Maya grins. “They’re giving out labels now, are they?” she asks. “I think you’d have been the _nicest_ defence in the West.”

Phoenix smiles sadly. “Perhaps the _stupidest_ ,” he mutters, and eager to be talking about something else, he remembers what Maya had mentioned earlier which had lead them down this path of conversation. He pauses, wondering if he’ll catch Maya off guard, worried about how she might react.

“You said Mia came back,” he says tentatively. Maya’s expression changes a little and her eyes widen. “Now Mia could come back for any number of reasons,” he says. “She’s your sister, for crying out loud, she’s Pearl’s cousin. You—re-landscaped the garden out back as a memorial for her mother.” He watches her face and recognises the way she’s trying to still herself into seriousness. “But you seemed to connect Mia’s reappearance with _me_ ,” he continues. “Which makes me wonder if she said anything to you _about me_.”

Maya touches the magatama at her throat. “I don’t know if my magatama will work against me,” she says. “And I’ve always been honest with you—except for that time in the office when I told you I’d cleaned out the fridge and thrown out that bowl of ramen that you’d bought and left there.” She smiles nervously—“I actually ate that the day before and I felt bad, so—“

Phoenix rolls his eyes, only vaguely remembering the ramen incident, but remembering having suspicions because it was rare for Maya to clean around the office—she was the one who taunted _him_ about being anal-retentive about cleanliness.

“I had my suspicions.”

Maya’s eyes widen. “Wow, Nick, you remember a bowl of ramen in the fridge from nearly a decade ago? That _is_ obsessive-compulsive.”

“Lawyers need to have good memories,” he says. She smiles, though the smile fades when she realises that they haven’t avoided the topic.

“What did Mia say about me?” he asks.

Maya blinks. “She said that you were in danger.”

 

It sounds ominous, but Phoenix shrugs. “Danger?” he scoffs. “From what? When was this, anyway? If it had been about two months after I was disbarred, I was certainly in danger of being _evicted_.”

Maya’s expression is uncharacteristically serious.

“Hell, I’m in danger right now for losing my perfect poker record,” he says with a laugh. “Or being revealed as a talentless hack when it comes to my non-existent skills as a pianist.”

“WHAT?” Maya is shocked again. “You have some _explaining_ to do, Nick.”

Suddenly, a more depressing danger occurs to him. “And I’m always in danger of losing Trucy, I guess.”

And that’s when he knows— that furious as she was for his lack of revelation earlier— Maya will always be on his side. She grabs him in a violent, intense hug, clinging to him tightly. “Maybe you’re right,” she says against the fabric of his hoodie. 


	5. Chapter 5

When they return from Kurain, Phoenix thinks about that saying about the heart growing fonder. Guitily, he thinks about Maya and their long break in contact—entirely his fault—and about Mia’s non-descript warning. Convincing himself it’s concerning Trucy, he refuses to say a word to his daughter, though he watches her, hawklike and privately worried.

And he thinks about how much he’s missed Kristoph in those days up in the mountains. Throughout the journey home while Trucy reads a tourist’s guide to the Kurain Tradition (“Wouldn’t it be cool if I could learn to channel spirits on stage as part of my act, Daddy?”), he fantasises about convincing Kristoph to take a long vacation where he can introduce him to Kurain and Maya, where Maya’s horror at the disintegration of “Edgeworth and Nick” will be replaced by the sense that he’s involved with someone far more suitable, and where he and Kristoph can elect to stay in the guesthouse, smirking to themselves on the way home about how they found the country air _most_ invigorating and energising and that the early bedtimes most enjoyed at Kurain weren’t quite enjoyed by them. Well, not for _sleeping_.

Of course, dirty thoughts aside, Phoenix realises that he’s missed Kristoph, and that he’s missed more than the deliciously frustrating game of cat-and-mouse and the sex; he’s missed the companionship, he’s missed Kristoph’s coolness. Maybe admitting out loud to someone that he and Edgeworth are over has allowed him to appreciate Kristoph a bit more. He’s not sure, but he’s glad to be returning to the city.

 

Trucy’s pleased to be back, too. They returned in time for her very first slumber party, and on Friday evening, there is a change in the usual Wright Family Routine. Her best friend and her family will watch her show at the Wonder Bar and then drive her back to their home so Trucy can spend the night watching the magic gala on television with her equally magic-obsessed best friend.

Phoenix isn’t sure if his paranoia— he knows these people, _they’ve_ trusted their daughter to spend the night before— is unwarranted and unreasonable, or if he’s just exhausted from the long train ride home, and frustrated by the lack of information on Zak and Thalassa. He hates the ambiguity of it, the lack of tangible information. He hates doubting Maya—and he hates seeing Maya doubt herself. And he hates the horror of the possibility of losing Trucy, whether it’s to them or to anyone else.

Sometimes, he viciously wants the Gramaryes to be dead, because it could mean he could get on with his life and stop wondering. Sometimes he wants them to be alive and well so Trucy could reconnect with them and learn about her past and family traditions and where she came from. Sometimes he rides hope on the idea that they might return when she’d be old enough to be leaving his home on her own, and that somehow she’d think of him as a father as much as her biological one.

And he realises it’s petty and jealous and unfair, but he also realises that he’s come to love the girl he thinks of as his own daughter. To the point where he doesn’t want to imagine life without her.

 

Trucy’s show was a success and the Friend family have driven back to their house in their shiny new SUV. The sight of them leaving, albeit happily and promising to take good care of his daughter, fills him with a sense of melancholy; he’s not used to being away from her, and he’s wondering how he’ll cope in the Hydeout without her presence.

But he’s arrived at work tonight; he needs the money. The fridge needs restocking. Bills need to be paid. The trip up to Kurain might have been only a short one, but it cost him several days work.

 

He listlessly plonks away at the piano in the Borscht Bowl, grateful that most of the patrons appear to be couples and families rather than solo poker players wanting to best him. When he feels a hand on his shoulder, he stiffens— though doesn’t stop— piano playing requires an awful lot of concentration when you’re not that skilled. It’s only when he feels fingers tighten against the top of his arm that he turns to face Kristoph. He knows it’s him; no one else pays him any attention any more. Even the waitstaff don’t bother to talk to him, much, and amongst the happy couples and families distracted by their own excitable offspring, he’s just an insignificant part of the decor to most of the people inside the restaurant.

It’s strange how all that thinking about Kristoph in the afternoon on the trip home feels like forever ago and that he’s more consumed by how he’s feeling about Trucy; worried and concerned—and how that seems to dampen his enthusiasm when the blonde touches him. Months ago, he would have hungered for that touch, he’d have filed it away and analysed it and wondered if it suggested a growing closeness—now he’s barely registering it.

Right now, he feels like his own interest in the man is the lesser of the two: his misery and concern about Trucy brings with it a hazy sort of depression which dulls his sexual interest. Ironically, Kristoph is different tonight; more physically demonstrative and more keenly interested in getting his attention. It takes less than a moment for Phoenix to deduce that things have just gotten more interesting in their three-season soap opera: Kristoph is _drunk_ tonight.

“Hello Wright,” he purrs. He’s louder when he’s drunk, he sounds cockier. “What’s a nice man like you doing in a dive like this?”

“Kristoph!” The surprise and the shock of seeing him in this state reduces Phoenix to panic and his voice to a dull hiss. “You’re drunk.” This close, he can smell the gin on him. It makes him seem strangely human, like he’s fallen from grace. And it’s terrifying and fascinating all at once.

Swinging around on the bench, pretending he’s just finished the song, and hoping amongst the loud chatter of the patrons in the restaurant the cessation of the music is unnoticeable, he gives Kristoph his full attention. “What happened?”

Kristoph freezes for a moment; he’s drunk enough to have changed in demeanour, but the way he’s clutching his elbow—  _Edgeworth used to do that—_  Phoenix can tell he’s still apprehensive about revealing the truth.

“Things are complicated,” he says mysteriously. He looks in the direction of the Hydeout. “Game of cards?”

“No.” Phoenix glances around the restaurant. “This is meant to be a _family_ establishment,” he says— “If anyone knows you’re drunk, you’ll be asked to leave.”

“Aren’t your games of poker and other downstairs activities less than legal as well, hmmm?”

“The last thing we need is an investigation into this place, Kristoph— this is my _job_.”

Kristoph smirks and says nothing.

“And you’re a regular patron. Do you really want all of _them_ looking at you like you’re some sort of alcoholic?”

“No,” he says. “But I’d like to talk to you.” His hand makes its way up Phoenix’s chest and attempts to crawl down the neck of his hoodie.

Perhaps it would be a wise idea to head home now. For one thing, his heart isn’t in his work tonight, for another, Trucy, his tableside companion, his very own lucky charm, isn’t with him, and with a heavy heart and a head full of other issues, he doesn’t like his chances at remaining undefeated. Poker is a game of psychology; he understands that much. And right now, his heart isn’t in it.

 

He tells his manager a white lie—  _My daughter’s sick and my friend’s arrived to take me home_ , and Kristoph hails a taxi down the road. When they climb in, either through drunkenness or a desire to introduce Phoenix to his own apartment, Kristoph gives the driver his address, not that of the Wright Anything Agency.

Through either curiousity or carelessness, or a desire to sleep somewhere more comfortable than in his own living room, where he knows he’ll be thrown off kilter by the absence of his daughter, Phoenix neglects to correct them, and he brightens at the thought that he’ll be, for the first time ever, seeing Kristoph’s place of residence.

 

They don’t talk much in the cab. From the review mirror, the driver eyes them, trying to figure them out, possibly suspicious that neither of them can pay the fare back to the nicer end of town where Kristoph’s apartment is located. But by the time they step out, though, Kristoph’s sober enough to pay, and sober enough to point out to Phoenix the bus stop a short walk from the apartment block. He looks like he belongs in a movie, Phoenix thinks; his elegance and ethereal features are still there, but the alcohol has made him livelier and more demonstrative. Under the streetlights, he positively _glows_.

“Am I coming up with you?” he asks, and he’s nervous but he’s not quite sure why.

“Yes.” There’s a possessive growl in his voice. “Yes you _are_ , Wright.” As though making that point crystal clear, he grabs him roughly, pushing him towards the entry to the building. But something about his movement and the force in his grip seems directed and... strangely sober. Phoenix can’t help but think that if he really was drunk, there’d be some clumsiness rather than... this. Not that he minds; an affectionate— even if it’s an aggressively affectionate— Kristoph is more fun to have around than a cooling and aloof Kristoph whose interest in him appears questionable. He’s not used to it; it’s a delightful novelty. Dollie was rarely physically affectionate towards him, and she was never assertive like this. Edgeworth was _dominant_ , but in public, he was an iceberg. It was rare for him to initiate physical intimacy, and even when he was in control, he was painfully gentle, as though he was terrified that he might break something.

One of the appealing things about Kristoph, Phoenix thinks as he hears the rustle of keys and the click of an unlocked door— is that he’s too self-assured to give a damn. And... it’s hot. It feels like he’s being understood, like Kristoph can read his mind and they both match up evenly. And there’s definitely an element of lazy, decadent luxury to it; he doesn’t need to do anything more than be there and take it. And it helps that the tables seem to have finally turned around in his favour: for the first time, Kristoph seems positively _desperate_ for him. Phoenix isn’t used to this: it had always seemed to be a recurring theme in his life that _he_ was always the one more invested and wanting— now Kristoph has inverted that reality.

He’s sorely disappointed when the want doesn’t eventuate to more than Kristoph unlocking his front door and flicking on a light switch; in his mind, Kristoph would have become insatiable, the journey upstairs would be fraught with I-want-you-now tension which they’d eagerly diffuse once in the apartment. The reality is far more muted and ordinary, and far more typical of the usual Kristoph Gavin Phoenix has come to know.

 

When the light just inside the door is switched on, Phoenix is confronted with the reality of Kristoph’s apartment. It’s like the man; neat and orderly and simple in the sort of fashion that suggested he’d spent time and money making it effortlessly flawless, but the effect, to Phoenix, is quite dull. Perhaps his fantasies had run away with him in the past; Kristoph sometimes seemed regal and otherworldly, and Phoenix had secretly supposed his apartment reflected this even more than his professional suite did.

It isn’t a minimalistic apartment, but it looks as though it’s not lived in. And compared to his own, it seemed a little _too_ spacious. Everything’s modern and muted from the beige paint and the inoffensive modern art on the large wall of the living room, the perfectly tidy book cases and the entertainment unit with the closed doors, revealing nothing about a television or sound system beyond the fact that they’re packed away. There are sofas, too, the only interesting points of mention Phoenix can see. They look expensive and old-fashioned, like antiques in a museum which appear to be there for show rather than for sitting on.

“So here we are.” Kristoph’s voice shifts; the drunkenness all but a faded memory now.

“Would you care for a drink?”

Blinking and unable to hide the suspicion on his face, Phoenix isn’t sure whether to be flattered at being lured here, or nervous. Suddenly he’s gotten what he’d wished for. But not quite. And possibly he’d been wishing for it because he was lied to— or deluded— or—

He thinks about Edgeworth telling him he trusted too easily, mentally chiding himself for his cynicism. Why would he _not_ trust Kristoph? Edgeworth was hardly one to talk about weirdness and passive aggression and half-truths— at least Kristoph had been polite enough to warn that he was damaged— with Edgeworth it was weird shirking away sometimes and lights off and that bizarre control thing— and no explanation until he’d have a quasi-breakdown and half a bottle of scotch.

 _No_ , he thinks to himself, _That’s not my conscience talking, or my sense of reason, it’s Edgeworth’s pessimism_. And he hates that voice for being in the back of his head when he knows damn well it should have gone back to Cohdopia with its owner.

He’s even more irritated when he thinks of Maya’s tearful face and the word _soulmate_ , but he banishes that thought, too.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re drinking,” Phoenix says with a nod. He glances into the living area, unsure whether he should sit down or not. Kristoph seems to notice.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says kindly— yes, there is still a glimmer of intoxication in his voice— Phoenix knows he’s just being hyper-suspicious in thinking that the drunkenness was just an _act— damn Edgeworth and his bitter skepticism about everything_. “It’s always wonderful to be able to share my home and a few drinks with a dear friend,” he chirps over the kitchen counter as he unscrews a blue square-shaped bottle, looking at Phoenix to see him still standing. “Do have a seat, Wright.”

Phoenix glances at the sofa and decides, albeit warily, to sit down on it. This furniture looks so old and beautiful that sitting on it seemed weirdly disrespectful. There is, it seems, no chance they’re here for anything... _sexual_. Which is disappointing-- but his curiosity is aroused. If it isn’t about sex, what the hell does Kristoph actually _want_?

He watches as Kristoph prepares two drinks— the gin which wasn’t really electric blue, Phoenix will think of it as in future.

“You look nervous,” Kristoph comments as he recaps the bottle and puts it away.

Phoenix can’t stop himself sounding as terse as he does. “You appear to have sobered up quickly.”

“Sometimes I do this.” The way he looks then, smug and aware of his dishonesty, is frightening. And maybe it’s that fear, or maybe it’s the fact that Phoenix is already at least somewhat agitated with Trucy’s absence and the fact that he’s missing a  night’s work for a lie and a major deception— but he snaps back in response.

“I don’t believe you.” His arms are folded and he twitches, unsure whether it would be fight or flight instinct moving within him. Prior to this, yes, Kristoph had had an alluring danger about him, but it was part of his ambiguously smoky image. Never before had it felt _seriously_ dangerous. It’s been flirtatious white-lie dishonesty prior to this, the motivation suspected by Phoenix as seduction or avoidance of anything too forward. But mere white lies didn’t pull a struggling single father from work for no reason.

Perhaps if that reason had been _I am madly in love with you and I cannot do another moment without feeling your body against mine_ , Phoenix would have been initially irritated— but not fearful.

“Don’t, then.” Passing Phoenix his drink, and joining him in the living room, he waits, sipping from his glass. “I _have_ been drinking this evening,” he confesses. “I suspect what I’m going to tell you will be enough to make you want to drink as well.”

There’s that moment where Phoenix could almost swear that his heart has stopped. He knows it; Kristoph, damaged as he is, has feelings for him. _Geez_. The considerations to make— this truly does make Edgeworth a shadow in the past, and he’ll have to fade even more. In excitement, he can’t help but wonder if there will be anything else on the cards— if Kristoph has been hungering for the physicality of a relationship— yes, he’s always taken things slowly, but—

“Remember when I explained that my life was complicated?” he asks quietly. He sips his drink again. “Something happened today which I feel I probably should tell you in the interests of both honesty and my own internal conflict.”

Phoenix nods solemnly.

“I know you had designs on him,” Kristoph continues, his voice speeding up, eyes downcast into the bottom of his glass; “He always has been attractive— big brown eyes and enthusiasm, eager to please— you saw it, too.”

“I—” _have no idea what you’re talking about._

“Today brought a new development to the situation between my assistant and myself,” Kristoph says quickly. “He admitted that he was attracted to me, and—”

That wasn‘t what Phoenix expected to hear, and he’s now aware whom Kristoph is referring to. Memories of that _assistant_ run through his head, and that one meeting they had years ago in Kristoph’s office. In a stunned heat, he chokes out one question— “And— isn’t he still underaged?”

Shifting gingerly on his chair, Kristoph doesn’t quite look at him. “Technically yes, though not for much longer. Wherein lies the problem: we work in the same office, and—”

Shrugging, defeated already, Phoenix can’t hide the hurt in his voice. Not all of it; when he plays poker he knows what to expect more or less. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting this.

“I thought—”

“Therein lies _another_ problem, Phoenix.” Kristoph’s voice is pure and gentle, sorrowful. “I cannot honestly say that I have no feelings for you, either.”

And that’s when it gets interesting. He looks down, fingertips playing with the pointed shaft of the end of his hair. “It’s just that young Apollo has such... _innocence._ Oddly enough, I trust him, because I’ve never known him to do anything untoward— he wouldn’t know _how_ to lie.”

His eyes shift up to meet Phoenix’s, though there’s something dark and definitely aroused in them. “You, on the other hand... seem well aware of the game of courtship and... what follows.”

Unsure if that was a compliment or not, Phoenix is conscious of how _stiff_ the chair he’s sitting on is. It’s like this conversation; tidy and serving a purpose, benign and pretty and practical; but not particularly comfortable.

“I’ve been out of the game for awhile,” he says coyly, feeling heat rise to his face and his hand shift to rub the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t know how to seduce myself out of a paper bag.”

“You’re good at playing coy,” Kristoph says quietly. “And I will admit that does have its appeal, especially when coupled with my own trust issues.”

 _Perhaps it isn’t an act,_ Phoenix wants to say, thinking bitterly of Edgeworth chastising him for his stupidly naive romantic streak, but Kristoph explains bluntly.

“I know you are very good at poker.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not even going to pretend, for a moment, that you’re unaware of the psychological warfare involved in a game of cards, Phoenix.” He chuckles. “And you’re very good.” The hand, Phoenix notes, shifts up to his face to wipe an invisible... _something_... away from his top lip. Watching Kristoph, transfixed by the way that even the slightest, most ordinary movements like this can look undeniably sexual. He says nothing.

“If we were playing for something more than a good time, perhaps I’d have found myself in a most undignified position.” And then there’s that _smile_ , and the implication, and Phoenix hates himself for it but he can feel the erection forming against the fabric of his pants. Trying to think unsexy thoughts— disbarment— no— that makes him think of Kristoph coolly standing up for him for no reason, with no expectation of any pay-off— and _that_ makes him think of how he _could_ have repaid him— oh _god..._ the overwhelming smell of cooked beetroot and cheap vodka in the backroom at the Borscht Bowl— that borscht and vodka which Kristoph will consume and... no—  _Trucy_. It’s thinking of his daughter which stops the thoughts, pushing him back to reality, but he’s drawn away again when Kristoph sips his drink and licks his bottom lip. He eyes Phoenix scandalously. ” _Have_ you ever done that before?” he asks. If Phoenix had his magatama with him, he‘d be looking for confirmation that there was something more to that question than a simple flirtation.

“Done what?”

If Kristoph likes innocent, he’s playing innocent; and Phoenix feels as though he’s being offered tiny clues on how to seduce this beautiful creature, things Kristoph is too proud to admit to.

“Have you ever been so confident in your luck— and ability— that you’d gamble on things of a more intimate nature than money or your reputation?”

 _No_. Phoenix almost doesn’t want to admit to it because it seems like Kristoph has a fantasy scenario here which is making him curious. _I couldn‘t. Not with Trucy in the room with me_. But he cannot say a word about that. It could look like cheating. But it‘s not cheating; he doesn‘t see cards beyond his own. He‘s— they‘re— just— intuitive.

And Kristoph is a man of evidence. Intuition, to him, will look deceptive.

 

“Well?” The purr in his voice sends a shudder through Phoenix.

“No one’s ever asked to gamble for more than a G-rated good time,” he says slyly. “Sometimes they get cocky,” he adds, “and they assume that their lucky day will strike at the same time as my _un_ lucky one— and they’ll put money on the table.” He smiles at Kristoph, trying to look every bit the rogue, confident card player. Since his disbarment, it’s all he _has_ felt confident in. And why not flaunt his ability? “They always offer, not me, and they have to offer behind the doors of the Hydeout. With no one else in the room.” He smiles, realising he’s flirting again. “And they usually aren’t that confident to take such a risk,” he continues.

Kristoph clears his throat. “I wasn’t talking about money,” he says. “Money could be suggestive of illegal activities.”

Phoenix nods, worried he’s admitted to something he shouldn’t have. Not that it’s actually happened much. Not that he’s named anyone, or offered times and amounts of money, or that he’s revealed the manner in which the bets have been made.

“No one’s ever asked you to gamble with sexual favours?” Kristoph is smirking, and whether he means to or not, the way he runs his hand over his thigh makes him look close to devillish. Phoenix takes another sip of his drink, and bites down hard on the inside of his bottom lip. _No. They haven’t. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t try._

“No,” he replies, wishing to suffix it with _not yet._

“I suppose the other question, the irrelevant one since it’s never happened,” Kristoph continues sweetly, “Is would you take someone up on such an offer if they were to ask for that?”

Phoenix smiles, his eyes watching Kristoph intently once more. This isn’t so much as flirting; it’s a mating dance; they’re two alphas circling one another, learning one another’s moves and body language and scents. Eventually, he can’t help but think, it’s going to end in sex.

“It would depend very much on who asked such a thing,” Phoenix says. “For the vast majority of my clientele, _no_.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m there to work, and a backroom quickie isn’t going to put food on the table or pay my rent.”

“That all depends on how much you were offered, doesn’t it?”

The questions are becoming unnerving. Is this Kristoph about to make an offer— and he’s not sure if such an offer would make him feel aroused or degraded— or is this Kristoph trying to gain some insight into his character?

“Not really.” He sips his drink and clears his throat. “The Borscht Bowl doesn’t need to be questioned by authorities about the nature of the card games, and they certainly don’t have the license to run adult _services_ downstairs, either. I don‘t want to get my employers into hot water. They’ve been very good to me.”

“Blame the establishment,” Kristoph says with an unconvinced look.

“ _And_ myself: I couldn’t live with Trucy finding out and then having to explain it to her.”

“Even years down the track?”

“Even if she was an adult and I was rotting away in a retirement village.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t judge.” Kristoph sips his drink. “After all, she may just resort to such means herself; it’s not uncommon for people to do such things when they’re trying to stay alive while pursuing higher education.”

Phoenix feels his throat tighten up and a hard glare come onto his face. “Not Trucy,” he says defensively, no longer smiling.

“I was _joking_.” There’s a light-hearted chuckle from Kristoph and he sips his drink again. Phoenix is confused, feeling as though he’s been thrown off-balance with such casual “joking,” and wonders if Kristoph merely neutralised darker sentiments to avoid an argument.

There’s another awkward silence, and he feels the urge to fill it with something. Maybe he asks a bit dryly, a bit cynically— “What’s all this about, Kristoph?” He can hear the exhaustion in his voice then, and it’s accompanied with a sigh. “What did you want?”

 “Company,” he replies. “Sometimes I get a bit maudlin when I’m left to my own devices and dwelling on past events.” Then there’s a pause. “Or when I’m hideously torn and confused.”

“What confuses you?”

Phoenix is sure that he’s not flirting again, but the smirk Kristoph offers him makes him second-guess himself.

“The scenario involving my assistant,” he admits. “And the circumstances surrounding the two of us.”

“I’m not that complicated,” Phoenix says. Perhaps the gin, combined with his own loneliness and frustration makes him bolder. He tries to imagine Kristoph’s body entwined with his own as the dance becomes physical and they furiously shed clothes on the sofa— “I’m a fairly straightforward kind of guy.” As if to emphasise the point, he shifts on the sofa, casually leaning against the arm rest, hoping that the bottom of his hoodie is loose enough to hide the beginnings of an erection.

“My assistant is innocence personified though,” Kristoph says. “You may say you’re perfectly benign, Phoenix, but you have twenty-something years of life and experiences under your belt, you’ve survived what you have, and—”

“And your assistant doesn’t have that?”

“He’s eighteen,” Kristoph says. “He admitted to me this afternoon that he’s never been in love, never kissed anyone for more than a dare—”

“No girlfriend?” Phoenix asks, incredulous, and wondering about how innocent the assistant really is.

“Apparently not.”

“Have you considered the fact that he may be lying?”  

“Oh, he had a girlfriend in a very uneventful sense of the word,” Kristoph says with a shrug. “A sweet friendship with a crush, the sort of awkward, asexual partnership which people use to move through a world where it’s expected that everyone pairs up.”

“How do you know all this?”

“He told me. But then he also told me that he believes he may be homosexual.” There’s a flickering spark in his eyes at the mention of the word, as though it’s somehow scandalous and something to be toyed with.

“Wouldn’t he already know that—?”

“I do believe young Apollo was rather coy about his admission,” Kristoph continues, a smirk creeping onto his face. “And perhaps he may need a little _encouragement_ to realise his desires, and...”

It falls into place so neatly, like blocks in a puzzle. “And you’re worried that you might take advantage of this?” Phoenix asks, unimpressed.

Kristoph flinches, and finishes off his drink. “That’s part of the problem,” he says. “I’m worried about behaving inappropriately towards him. And my fears aren’t at all alleviated when I find myself confronted with certain realities of the situation.” He sighs, and looks away. Phoenix finishes _his_ drink, and feels torn between disgust and jealousy.

“What sort of realities?” he asks, perhaps a bit too forcefully.

“I keep forgetting that you haven’t seen him for a few years,” he says coyly. “That the assistant you’re familiar with is a skinny teenager in a bright red suit who stumbles about awkwardly and has no composure whatsoever. He’s... changed.”

“And...?” _What about_ this _?_ Phoenix longs to ask, but doesn’t. He stands up and walks through to the kitchen, taking his glass with him with the view to placing it in the sink. But when Kristoph reaches out, handing him his own, asking him— not so much as _asking_ , but _ordering_ him to “Refill mine as well, while you’re up, please”— he realises that another drink is the only option.

And then there’s that look which melts away at the anger. He can see it, clearly in Kristoph’s expression: there isn’t just casual flirtation there, there’s _need_. Neither of them say anything as Phoenix fills the glasses and returns to the living room.

Sipping his drink again, Kristoph watches Phoenix carefully. “I’ve sometimes wondered if I’m merely using my assistant to project other fantasies on, Phoenix,” he tells him. “With _him,_ I know what I’m dealing with, there’s no wild card of what else I might be handling, no broken heart and wounded mind amongst the package, no—”

“Kristoph.” Phoenix sighs, wondering why the hell he’d felt that the situation between himself and Edgeworth felt so complicated. “You don’t trust me.”

“I want to trust you,” Kristoph admits. “But some part of me is subconsciously holding back. I look at my assistant and see a refreshing young man, an untainted opportunity; I see _safety._ And then I look at you and see—” Perhaps Phoenix’s eyes narrow and he’s smirking slightly. Perhaps.  “—I see depths I could sink into, I see obsession which I’m managed to keep under control until I’ve had a few drinks, I see... possibility.”

Phoenix’s eyes widen, and the confusion starts fading. He’s only mildly annoyed now that Kristoph deceived him into walking off from work— he’d have left anyway, wouldn’t he?— because underneath the complication, one thing seems painfully clear.

Kristoph, beneath the cool exterior, has been thinking about him. His demure facade was just that— it wasn’t disinterest, it was a weakness, a fear of vulnerability— something— and even the admission about his assistant seems so casual and explainable. _Substitution._ The man had said it himself: he wanted this Apollo kid to fill in a gap, to transfer his true desires onto, because the kid was safe and harmless— there was no risk there.

All he can do is move towards the blonde, boldly, with another sip of his drink, and rest himself against the seat Kristoph’s sitting on. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I promise.”

Kristoph doesn’t shirk away as Phoenix is worried he might. He looks at him for a long time, then gently places a hand over his. “I want to believe that,” he murmurs quietly.

“Then _believe it_.”

“I cannot force myself to believe in the unknown,” Kristoph offers casually.

“Yet you can make yourself believe that I’m untrustworthy with no evidence of _that_ , right?” Phoenix isn’t sure if he’s hurt or angry or a combination of both. Or if frustration and jealousy are overriding factors here. “Don’t tell me you have doubts about my integrity after I was disbarred...?”

That’s when Kristoph looks down at the floor, and it’s as much of an admission as Phoenix needs. And he’s not sure if he’s furious or just _hurt_ ; he blinks, feeling overly emotional tears welling in his eyes; he’s not sad, he’s _frustrated._ He hears that voice in the back of his head again, and curses it: _He’s not worth crying about, Wright, if he has doubts about your true nature and ethics_ —and he shakes it off angrily.

_Shut up, Edgeworth. You’re playing Mr. Romantic over in Cohdopia now._

And _that_ irritates him too. Furthermore, Kristoph has stilled and composed himself, now, and he’s sitting there, a whirlwind of emotions and conflicting and unpleasant feelings, while Kristoph is looking guilty, holding out a hand daintily, as if offering an apology.

“I shouldn’t have said that, Phoenix,” he says carefully. “It’s not fair for me to project my insecurities onto you.”

Perhaps it’s the apology, the softness, the concern in his voice which does it, or maybe it’s the fact that Edgeworth so rarely apologised and this feels like some kind of advancement with Kristoph, but Phoenix can feel his cheeks warming and his heart racing. Kristoph has a way of doing that; perhaps it’s because he’s so frustratingly aloof that those random moments of gentle concern mean more than they do from most people, but in this instance—there’s a particular _look_ on his face which he can’t help but stare at. He’s seeing a side of Kristoph he has never seen before; the man looks positively humbled. And it’s such an intimate moment—and it’s _his_ —that he wonders if Kristoph actually _does_ trust him more than he actually realises.

He’s snapped before he’s realised it. “It isn’t—“ and then there’s another silence, awkward and drawn out, as though they’re both waiting for something; there’s a chemistry in the air which is taut and fragile and electric, and it’s shattered in that moment when Kristoph speaks.

“I apologise, then.”

Apologies aren’t on Phoenix’s mind right now. He wonders if this is a subtle way of flirting; flirting through argument—and the thought makes him uncomfortably aroused. Towards the end of the beginning, that was how things appeared to proceed with Edgeworth; his foreplay was argument. Phoenix was never sure if he’d become accustomed to it and came to associate it with sexual thoughts, or if it always had appealed to him; either way, he’d learned it was something which could pique his interest—he was very aware, in this moment, however, that he wanted Kristoph Gavin in some form or another.

 

And the way Kristoph is looking at him; leaving those open to interpretation silences hanging there—it isn’t helping.  

 

“You’re not making this any easier,” Kristoph murmurs, and the spell, the tension, that facade—is shattered. He has nowhere to be tonight; Trucy is under someone else’s trusted care, he doesn’t have to rush off to work, and Kristoph has invited him up here—and appears to be flirting with him.

And he can tell, when the other man’s body is pressed against his own, that the idea of this being verbal foreplay wasn’t his alone; Kristoph’s body feels taut with energy; his skin is flushed and warm; and that kiss leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

 

The kiss grows deeper and longer; for a moment Phoenix feels triumphant, as though he’s won something, like this sliver of intimacy is a great revelation. And then he can feel Kristoph’s fingertips working their way under his hoodie, tempting it upwards and off, and there’s a strange realisation that somehow _he’s_ mostly unclothed but Kristoph is not. He’s assisted in the struggle out of his attire, but Kristoph hasn’t attempted to undress himself at all.

And Phoenix decides not to tempt fate; he knows the man has enormous trust issues, and he’s more than satisfied being with him as he is now. There’s even something attractive about being so naked, so vulnerable in comparison to a fully-clothed Kristoph who may or may not decide to walk away.

In the back of his mind are memories of Edgeworth and all _his_ issues about being seen naked; it’s like a comfortingly familiar childhood scent crossing his memory in that moment, and he smiles before kissing Kristoph again, and feeling his nose press against the other man's cheek. It’s sloppy and desperate and undignified; they’re like college students frantically grabbing a moment of intimacy before a room mate returns and a light is switched on—but it’s human and beautiful and unchoreographed. It’s spontaneous even though it’s felt like so much was leading up to it.

“I must warn you—“ Kristoph starts to say, but his words become lost in another kiss; at this moment, there’s no warning which would make Phoenix turn back now. He attempts to run a hand under Kristoph’s shirt to feel his skin; he’s always wondered how Kristoph feels under that crisp blue suit—and he’s brushed away.

And then the world stops. Perhaps this wasn’t the right time. Maybe Kristoph’s come to his senses and that touch **—**  so slight and so innocent—was too much for him. In the muted light, Phoenix can hear their breathing and in the muted light, he catches the flicker of something frantic in Kristoph's eyes, something that he’s unaccustomed to seeing. Then he feels hands on his hips. 

It only makes him more desperate. He wants Kristoph so badly that it’s painful. He **’** s wanted him for so long; it’s been nearly three years of this skirting around and innuendo, and finally he’s got his chance, and now it seems like the insecurities and the assistant have been long forgotten and it’s just reduced to the two of them, writhing against one another on the living room floor, and—

“Turn around,” Kristoph murmurs quietly. Obediently, Phoenix shifts himself, aware of the guidance from the hands on his skin, the fingernails digging into his hips almost possessively.

“Is this okay?” he mumbles. More than anything, he’s worried about it stopping; he’s worried that Kristoph might be laughing at him and his desperation and arousal, but a quick glimpse at the blonde’s expression suggests that his concern is in vain, that Kristoph is equally interested. Even though he’s sounding so ridiculously futile and pathetic.

He feels a hand making its way down the front of his underwear and gasps at the touch; it’s oddlyfeatherlight and tentative, like Kristoph’s uncertain about what he might find there, but there’s a murmur of approval which follows and then his own gasp as Kristoph’s fingers begin stroking him. He now seems confident in what he's doing; and Phoenix cannot help but feel overpowered; _he_ was always the one with the unreadable poker face, yet now, if Kristoph dared turn around and look him in the eyes, all his secrets, all those months of longing, would be revealed. He’s not sure whether he’s grateful that Kristoph hasn’t bothered to look-- that he seems more intent on retrieving something from the base shelf of the coffee table—or not. Maybe if he saw him, he’d realise that the disbarred attorney’s intentions were pure—pure _want_ , anyway—instead of instinctive mistrust. Feeling the tickle of cotton—shirt fabric—  against his back, he wants to giggle childishly, to break the intensity. But he’s nervous of disrupting things; this is Kristoph Gavin, who does everything perfectly, and a random laugh in the middle of sexual intercourse isn’t perfect. He stifles the laugh and pushes himself down into the fingers encircling his cock instead, moaning softly to himself.

There’s a mechanical-sounding plastic _snap_ behind him, and some sort of recognition switches itself on in his brain; how long’s it been since he’s been on the receiving end of—actually, how long’s it been since he’s had sex at _all_ —and then there’s a moment of stillness from Kristoph.

“You’ve tensed up, Wright,” he says quietly, leaning over him, that moist, sultry voice in his ear. “I do hope you’re not apprehensive about—“

“No.” As much as he hates it, sexual mishaps with Edgeworth flash through his mind; Edgeworth could be unintentionally inconsiderate when it came to sex, and Phoenix had always been able to withstand those occasions; this would be minor given Kristoph’s obvious expertise.

“I’ll be gentle with you,” he says, a lilt in his voice making the suggestion that he finds it all somewhat amusing.

Phoenix murmurs to himself again, and he feels two hands touching him wonderfully; there’s the slight increase in the speed and the pressure against his cock, and there are cautious, moist fingertips running over his entrance; it’s frustrating, because this is more foreplay than he’s used to, and it lacks the immediate gratification which he partially expects thanks to being Edgeworth’s lover for a few months; but he’s aware that the benchmark has suddenly been raised, and guiltily, he’s going to compare every experience to this in the future. It’s sublimely torturous, and he cannot help but shift against Kristoph’s touch after a few moments, urging him for release.

“Patience,” Kristoph murmurs against his ear. “ _I’m_ having to be patient.”

The thought of changing his mind and screaming something hurried and inappropriate crosses his mind, but he bites down on the inside of his lip, willing himself to be silent. Kristoph doesn’t like things to be lewd and undignified; fast and furious quickies can happen later, he mentally tells himself.

He can only moan with quiet approval as Kristoph pushes into him softly with a fingertip. The moan does not go unnoticed; Kristoph’s other hand clenches around him midstroke and he mumbles something, as though he’s battling with himself the urge to do away with cautious concern or not to, and it’s enough for Phoenix to push up against Kristoph’s hand aggressively.

“I’d say you’re being quite vulgar now, Wright,” Kristoph gently chides him, “unless, of course, I’m mistaken and—“

And that’s what makes Phoenix’s resolve turn to ash; it’s that almost-taunt, that _voice_ in his ear suggesting that he’s being filthy and desperately sluttish; that his cool façade has been cracked, that Kristoph is seeing him for once how he really is, wanting and desperate and driven to depravity by this madness they’ve called the last three years. 

His teeth are gritted and he waits for it as Kristoph slowly withdraws from him.

“Shall I attempt another?” he asks sweetly, and that’s when Phoenix snaps.

“Just fuck me already, all right?” he hisses.

“Are you _sure_?”

Maybe, at some other point, this would be amusing foreplay, this would be torment in a _fun_ kind of way: right now, it’s nothing but cruel insanity and the most horrendous frustration imaginable. He pushes up against Kristoph again, as though daring some movement from the other man; when he’s met with a sigh and a “ _fine_ ,” and then the stiff _thickness_ of the other man entering him, he begins to have reservations. Perhaps he wasn’t ready, perhaps—

It’s less than a moment and that notion is forgotten as Kristoph’s pace increases; his entire tone has changed, it seems; gone is the meek, pleasant and almost _amused_ partner who was gently taunting him, now he’s moving quickly against him and into him; the force from his thrusts pushing Phoenix into the carpeted floor and then jolting him back up again. If he wants to protest—and he’s sure that he does at one point—he can’t, because his mind can’t focus on two tasks at the one time—there’s talking or breathing, and breathing is winning out at the moment, in short, sharp little gasps as though he’s drowning and then being pulled to air and then—  

“ _Fuck_.” He barely registers the word as it leaves his throat. It’s jagged and coarse and ugly, and it only seems to encourage Kristoph to increase his pace for a few more thrusts and grunts and murmured undertones; suddenly apprehension and discomfort have been replaced with something else and the desperation is different and—

He isn’t quite aware of when Kristoph comes, but his own orgasm leaves him like an unintentional expletive at the moment of a stubbed toe or a lottery win or a finger slammed in a car door.There’s a scream from him and then there’s silence in the seconds afterwards when the reality of what’s happening and where he is dawns upon him. He lies on the floor, jellylike and delirious, waiting for his breath to steady itself before turning to Kristoph. He cannot remember when Kristoph had shifted away from him slightly, his body softening with spent energy and afterglow,but he’s conscious of the way his blood warms his face and he doesn’t mind the weight of the other man’s body still enveloping him. He could stay like this for a very long time, he thinks.

In the depths of his mind a single thought germinates: he would do anything for _this._ Kristoph isn’t just _good_ , he’s amazing, he’s breathtaking, he’s uncharted depths of intrigue and he’s closer to perfection than anything Phoenix has ever experienced before.

 

He’s felt _happy_ after sex, but usually that happiness came with pleasing someone else, with watching _them_ be pleasured because of him. With Kristoph, there’s something darker and more selfish; there’s something exquisitely _carnal_ about the man which he’s not used to, yet it’s balanced with stunning and sharp intellect and packaged in a gradually-fading mystery. He’s had to work to get this far with Kristoph, and it’s paid off. 

 

He wants to stay here; not on the floor, he thinks, as he realises the sting on his elbows and his chin is carpet burn—but in the apartment. He wants to wake up next to Kristoph, to share breakfast with him, to possibly repay the favour in the morning when his energy has replenished. A greedy part of him wonders if all he’s seen of Kristoph so far is an opening, if there’s far more to his sexual repertoire than this—and he’s undeniably intrigued.

His chain of thought shatters when he feels a hand on his back.

“I suppose we should clean up now and think about sleep,” Kristoph says in a beautifully unaffected sort of way, suggesting that this is really only scraping the surface for him. There’s a laziness to his words. “Have you any plans this evening?”

Phoenix shakes his head, worried still that his breath hasn’t fully recovered.

“Oh.” Kristoph sounds almost disappointed.

“Trucy’s staying at a friend’s place tonight—“ bringing a hand to his forehead and wiping away what feels like sweat, Phoenix smiles bashfully, suddenly aware of the light in the room and his nakedness and the way Kristoph looks rather composed—and clothed—in comparison. “Funny,” he babbles on—“their surname _is_ Friend—so she’s at her friend Friend’s house tonight and—“  

Kristoph’s elegant brush-stroke eyebrows narrow slightly. “I see,” he says. He looks around the living room helplessly. “I—wasn’t quite expecting an overnight guest tonight,” he admits.

“It’s all right,” Phoenix continues, not sure if this is Kristoph just being shy about his surroundings or fearful about anything that may look like commitment—“you’ve seen my apartment; yours is—“

“I meant—“ Kristoph says with some irritation, “I really am _not_ prepared for an overnight guest, Wright—and I actually had promised Klavier that should his rock show finish up late, then he was welcome to make himself at home on the sofa over there.” The way he says it, he sounds irritated, but Phoenix writes the irritation off to being with himself and his lack of forethought. But then, who can be angry? No one _intended_ for things to eventuate as they had, right?

Phoenix nods, trying to ignore the spinning feeling in his head; the confusion and the sense of trying to unravel Kristoph Gavin. _Why analyse it?_ He chides himself. _Most people would be grateful for the soul-stopping orgasm and they’d move on. It was never serious_.

The problem is, he realises as the thought occurs to him: it _was_. Some part of him has fallen hard for the icy blonde; and some stupid, juvenile little section of his brain—that romantic bit that Edgeworth always rolled his eyes at—was assuming that this was a development in their relationship.

He blinks, confused and undeniably hurt.

“So… I suppose I need to call a cab?” he asks.

Kristoph looks towards the microwave clock in the kitchen and nods. “I hadn’t realised how late it had become,” he says. The sly note slips back into his voice. “You have a way of doing that to me, Wright.”

All is forgiven for that comment, and Phoenix finds his knees and resolve weakening again.

He nods, wondering if this is just going to be an interlude where plans about Klavier are forgotten or ignored. A flicker of an idea enters his mind for a split second: Klavier stumbling home from one of his _rock gigs_ to hearing ecstatic moans and possibly catching a glimpse of them fucking in the master bedroom.

Petty as he knows it is, there’s something beautiful in that.

 

He watches, however, as Kristoph makes his way through to the kitchen and retrieves his cell phone: there’s a moment of hesitation where Phoenix stands up, wondering if getting dressed is too pessimistic an idea or if Kristoph may catch a glance of sweat-soaked skin or recently-fucked body and change his mind. When Phoenix hears him speaking into the phone and, in clipped terms, ordering a cab to the address, he sighs quietly to himself and pulls his pants up. It only occurs to him once he has that he would have appreciated a shower, and he may have used the opportunity to change Kristoph’s mind. Or influence him a bit.

There’s a moment of awkwardness when Kristoph flicks the phone shut and the two look at one another as though they’re both waiting for the other to speak.

Phoenix breaks the ice. “Thankyou,” he says quietly. 

“I’ve already paid for the cab,” Kristoph tells him off-handedly. “I’ve charged it to the business account.” There’s a faint smile from him, and he glances across the kitchen bench at the bottle of electric blue gin—as though he’s considering another— and then back at Phoenix.

“I think I prefer you sober,” Phoenix tells him softly, with a coy smirk.

Kristoph smiles; soft and serene. “I’m not sure how I prefer you yet, Wright,” he says quietly, a very obvious flirtatious note in his voice. “I suppose I’ll have to try a few things and find out.”

Phoenix’s words are caught in the back of his throat; somehow this is only making the frustration gather and stew; it’s frustration which should have been dealt with earlier, but suddenly he’s feeling more alert and eager and interested in the idea of _challenging_ Kristoph to test him, to learn of intricacies neither of them are yet aware of. He’s tempted to tell Kristoph that the taxi can be cancelled, that he’ll quite happily stay here and that if Klavier _and his band_ decide to rock up, for all he cares, they can _watch_ as Kristoph tries to find out which way he prefers him.

But his thoughts are interrupted by the beep of a horn downstairs, and Kristoph’s eyes widen. “That was quick,” is all he says, and nods to Phoenix. “I suppose I’ll see you over the week.”

Phoenix nods, realising that his time is up and that to hang around any longer this evening is only going to look pathetic.

“Thankyou once again,” he says with a smile betraying his true feelings.

Downstairs, the cab beeps again, and Phoenix turns towards the door.

He gets another unexpected surprise, in the form of Kristoph descending upon him, crushing him against the wall prior to his fingers touching the door handle, Kristoph's lips pressed against his and his tongue deftly manoeuvring into his surprised mouth, once again beautifully competent and expertly precise. Phoenix’s eyes widen and once again he’s vaguely hopeful until Kristoph pulls away and smirks at him.

“No goodnight kiss after my hospitality?” he asks in a soft undertone. “Really, Wright, perhaps I need to teach you a few things about basic etiquette.”

But he’s joking and flirting again, evidenced by the smirk on his lips as Phoenix, still shocked by the unexpected kiss, reels from it.

“I’m—“ he starts to say, unsure whether an apology should follow and if so, how it should sound.

“Goodnight, Wright.”

He nods as the cab beeps again and suddenly there’s an urgency: what happens if it drives away and he’s forced to go back upstairs and admit that he has no way of getting home and no money to do so?

He gives Kristoph a nod, hopefully indicating the need to leave—not because he _wants_ to, but because of the cab—and opens the door and rushes downstairs.

 

Amongst the stench of past-its-best pizza and cheap cigarette smoke, Phoenix is grateful that the cab driver appears unaware of _his_ scent; it’s in the back of the cab, with something inappropriately jaunty and foreign blasting his hearing, that Phoenix realises that yes—he smells of sex. But something about it is undeniably _Kristoph_ , sick as that sounds: it’s _different_ to other times, and there’s a level of shame knowing you’re going home reeking of another’s bodily fluids and yet there’s almost something perfectly wanton and _filthy_ about it. The kind of filthy which was enticing Kristoph to _just fuck me already_ , he thinks to himself, smiling as he gazes out the window.

The smile masks his confusion, and while he’d like to have unravelled the mystery surrounding the other man and what to do about it, his head is still a jumble of confusion and hurt and exhilaration by the time he is dropped back at the Agency.

 

He’s dealt with a lot, he tells himself while he waits for the Friends to return Trucy to the building the next morning. He’s capable and strong and good at getting beneath other peoples’ surfaces, he can weather an emotional storm, and as he’d told Kristoph earlier, he’s not at all frightened by complication.

Still, though, something in Kristoph’s manner last night bothered him, though he writes it off as defensiveness designed to keep him from getting closer. With Edgeworth, he was up against a cold rage when he inadvertently threatened the other man’s safety. Dollie would change the subject, sometimes shedding a few tears and he’d become preoccupied with trying to bring a smile back to her face—and yes, Dollie had killed and would kill again—but Dollie’s heavily guarded undercurrents weren’t typical of most people.

Edgeworth had had his own secrets, and he wasn’t evil, he was just damaged. But sometimes that rage and hostility made Phoenix wonder if he really was facing another Manfred von Karma, a dangerous and corrupt monster. There’d been hurtful comments from Edgeworth, criticisms of his personality which he’d had to learn to avoid taking to heart; and there’d been that one time, after a particularly harrowing confession from the prosecutor, where he’d stupidly tried to offer a comforting arm and he’d been forcefully pushed away with violent aggression.

It wasn’t that Edgeworth’s personality was violent, he’d assured himself, it was that he was damaged, and Phoenix had made him feel threatened.

And perhaps this was the same with Kristoph.

 

Lying down on the sofa, he kicks his sandals off and stretches his legs. He’s still bewildered by what happened last night, how a standard meeting at the Borscht Bowl had turned into deception, revelations, what appeared to be a crippling terror of intimacy and then mindblowing sex.

At least he didn’t need to question Kristoph’s motives there; he was _good_ , deliriously so. He briefly considers the apprentice—the Apollo kid—and smirks to himself, wondering how _he’d_ have fared, at his age, working in the Gavin and co law offices. He can understand why the kid has a crush on him. And he admits to himself that he’d feel a pang of sympathy for him if Kristoph weren’t trying to use him as some kind of quick-release avoidance mechanism.

 

When Trucy arrives home, she hugs Phoenix and begins telling him excitedly about the sleepover, about the magic show, about how she’d stayed up until sunrise watching cheesy old samurai show reruns, from “Back in the old days, where it was really silly rather than really tense and dramatic.” Phoenix smiles and neglects to tell her that the old days really weren’t that long ago and that he still remembers them quite clearly.

Drawing for breath, she looks at him quizzically. “How was your night?” she asks. “How did you cope at the Hydeout without me being there?”

He’s tempted to lie and say that everything was fine, but he doesn’t have the energy for lies, and he knows that Trucy can see through them anyway.

“I didn’t,” he says.

“So what did you do?”

“What I usually do,” he says, omitting the part which involved returning to Kristoph’s apartment. “I played some piano and saw Mr. Gavin.”

Trucy smiles knowingly, and Phoenix doesn’t elaborate.

“You look like you had a good weekend, Daddy,” she says, and Phoenix returns the smile. “I did.” 

“I was worried you’d miss me—or that I’d miss you—but sometimes it’s okay to spend time with other people.” It’s so naively sweet—and perfectly true—that all Phoenix can do is affectionately fluff Trucy’s hair and smile again.

There’s something too _aware_ in the look that she gives him as she stands up to put her bag on her bed, and he wonders if she’s merely being tactful enough to not talk about her true suspicions of last night’s events.

“I’m glad you had fun, Daddy,” she says. “And I’m glad that you didn’t let anyone damage your reputation.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Friday night is different the following week. Kristoph appears warmer and more decisive, and when Phoenix asks how work is, he knows something’s happened this week by the way the blond’s eyes light up and his face becomes close to excitable. Excitable for Kristoph anyway; an arched eyebrow and a slight smirk is all it takes, with a glimmer in his eyes which looks almost vulgar.

“I think I’m going to do away with my assistant.”

Phoenix glances across the restaurant at his daughter who is chatting animatedly to some of the waitstaff. It’s just before the expected rush of the evening; soon, he realises, she may just come over and use her skills of observation to realise something’s up.

“Why?”

Kristoph blinks, his voice disinterested, his hands reaching for the menu in the centre of the table. “I’m growing bored of him.”

When Phoenix narrows his eyebrows and looks at Kristoph like that, the other man is aware this explanation won’t suffice. He puts the menu down and his eyes meet Phoenix’s.

“All right,” he admits. His voice changes, the tone is cold and unimpressed. “My building also houses the local newspaper. And it appears that young Apollo has become quite taken with one of the new copyboys.”

“So?” _He’s jealous?_

“A distracted apprentice is useless to me.”

With a heavy heart, Phoenix realises it’s not just _that_ which is bothering Kristoph. And he’s conflicted; this is like Edgeworth all over again: two steps forward, three steps back... and he’s realising that Kristoph has the same flighty, easily startled nature. Show jealousy or irritation with him and his lack of commitment, and he’ll merely know he’s got the upper hand, that he can keep him on a thread like this, flighty and non-committal and--

It still doesn’t stop Phoenix childishly wanting the stupid assistant out of the picture. He wants him _gone_ : he tells himself it’s so the kid stops tormenting Kristoph with his presence, but there’s the desire to have Kristoph all to himself; undistracted. Then there’s the idea of being able to work in a legal office again: perhaps Kristoph will find him invaluable—he’s got experience-- maybe they could work together, side by side--

Lewd ideas start to blossom in his head as well. He shouldn’t think like that, but last week cemented something: his attraction to Kristoph wasn’t just fantasy; there was something there, they _worked_. There’d been an ease with which they’d moved together; there wasn’t any kind of awkwardness he’d remembered happening between himself and Edgeworth. And maybe it was presumptuous, but he had the idea that perhaps... what he’d done the other night was only the tip of the iceberg.

Once again there’s the sharp and uncomfortable contrast between Kristoph and Edgeworth; Edgeworth considered doing it in the daytime edgy experimentation. In hindsight, it had been yet another area of their relationship which had been fraught with difficulties, but Phoenix hadn’t minded too much at the time because it was with _him._ He was prepared to wait, to go slow, to try and mindread and work out what Edgeworth wanted because he’d truly loved the man. Sex wasn’t the most important part of a relationship, was it?

Though suddenly the prospect of becoming more involved with Kristoph’s life suggests opportunities he hadn’t previously considered or experienced longterm: decadent, hedonistic sexual exploration, an openness and an endless search for weak spots and blissful moans and an intense, base level of _pleasure_. It’s a novelty and a fascination wrapped in something quite dangerous, though amongst the risk and the danger, one thing is painfully clear: it’s become an all-encompassing addiction.

 

And then there’s the nicer, more rational side of it: the idea of working in a legal office again. Possibly an even stranger fantasy than any of his others, and something he’s hungered for almost to the degree that he’d yearned for human contact over the years. For the early part of his working life, he was defined by what he did: he was Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney, in the same way that Kristoph was the Coolest Defense in the West. It wasn’t just _a job_ like flipping burgers had been when he was starting out at college and how playing the piano was now: it was an identity, it ran through his veins like instinct. He’d lost his badge, but he was still a lawyer. Over the years, he realised, it didn’t hurt any more when he thought about his earlier life; it was an irritation, though, and despite the lack of heartbreak, it was frustrating.

 

Another thought had occurred to him, also: getting back into the social circles of the legally elite could possibly shed some light on the circumstances of his disbarment. He’d not asked Trucy about that day and who’d given her the forged paper she’d passed on to him; losing a badge on the day she’d lost her _father_ was a trivial complaint in comparison, and he worried about her opinion of him. Would he look like he was just keeping her around in order to gain the truth from her? He knew he wasn’t: but he worried how it might look to a child who had already lost so much. Perhaps her hyper-perception and experience of abandonment would combine and he’d be left with a little girl who measured their relationship in terms of how _useful_ she was to him. She’d been through enough; he felt, and if she remembered who’d given her the forged documents, wouldn’t she have told him, anyway?

One lead he’d chased was the prosecutor who’d damned him: he had attempted contact with Klavier, but Klavier never seemed to return phone calls and always appeared out of the office when he visited. And even when Edgeworth had come around and finally agreed to ask him, Klavier had apparently sniffed haughtily and stated that _he_ chose to keep his business life and his personal life separate. Phoenix would always remember that favour because it was rare for Edgeworth to play diplomat or messenger, rarer still for him to muddy his professional life with the personal. It also, apparently, caused the rift between himself and Klavier to widen.

With no information to go on, Phoenix’s hunger had died to a dull background ache, but the idea of being in the position to discover the truth reignited his need for it.

Someone _had_ to know something. Perhaps next to Kristoph, and back in the legal sphere again, he could start to find out.

 

There was an awkwardness which came with thinking about that time, too, because that was when Kristoph had first appeared in his life. Sure, he’d heard his name thrown about casually in the days before; they were both reasonably well-known defence attorneys in the same city—in a strange sort of way, they were every bit as much competitors as he and Edgeworth had been back in the day. There were differences, though; Kristoph was known for his flair and style and composure rather than his legal successes; theoretically they were both on the same “side,” but being young and attractive and well-educated meant that there was some pizzazz and romance attached to Kristoph Gavin: people paid top dollar to be represented by the golden boy lawyer, and Kristoph had the lifestyle to show for it whether he’d managed to secure wins or not.

The Fey office, on the other hand, was a more _budget_ option in comparison; Mia had taught him not to become blinded by the desire for the material, not to become corrupted by money. The books were perfectly balanced, but Mia frequently took on work _pro bono_ , and her kindness often reached to defending some poor but innocent soul who could barely afford legal fees of any description but made an effort to pay _something_. To Phoenix, they were the heroes for the underdogs, and that was how he liked it. To Mia, the Gavins of the world were little more than gaudy accessories rich people used to display when they were in legal trouble, and when they wanted to incite fear into the enemy with a flashy accomplice.

 

Phoenix still remembered one afternoon which seemed forever ago when Mia had flipped through an old copy of _GQ_ someone had left in the office, and she’d sniffed at the “designer lawyer” and the photo shoot of his excess and that cool, serene smile.

“I wonder how he does it, though,” Phoenix had said quietly.

“Bribes? Deal with the devil? I’m not sure, Phoenix.” She’d been in a snippy mood that morning, and Phoenix had a vague idea why: it would have been about a year ago when he’d started working there, and... it was the anniversary of a tumultuous time which she preferred not to mention.

At least they were avoiding the anniversary. “I don’t mean his _success_ or anything—I just mean the... _calm_. He always manages to look so _detached._ ”

“I’ll wager it’s in the same class of drugs as Valium and he pays top dollar for it,” she said nastily. “Either that or he enjoys having that gigantic stick up his ass.”

 

It was the only time they’d spoken about Kristoph, and neither Phoenix nor Mia mentioned the subject again. The blond designer lawyer had lingered into insignificance for a while, a name to be seen around here and there, an identity who worked a different social sphere to the one he dealt with. It was only weeks after the Engarde case that he realised with pride that while Matt Engarde could have easily afforded Kristoph Gavin’s service, _he’d_ been the one chosen-- because while Kristoph may have been the _coolest_ defence in the West, Phoenix was the... _best_. 

 

 

“Wright?” Kristoph pauses, still smiling serenely. “You seem a bit spacey there.”

“I’m just tired,” Phoenix admits, glancing over at Trucy as she starts chatting to customers—oh, _god_ , what did he tell her about contracts and exclusivity?—and brings his attention back to Kristoph.

“I can understand why you would be.” Kristoph tries to look sympathetic, but Phoenix cannot help but notice that it seems like a ruse. It irritates him.

“What are you tired _of_ , though?”

That was an unexpected question. He sighs. “Does your life ever feel like a random collection of unhappy events and plotlines that never actually lead to anything?” he asks. “Because mine does right now—I don’t mean to sound melancholic, but—“

“Sometimes,” Kristoph says soothingly. “But that’s always been the beauty of you, Wright; you manage to wrangle yourself out of stasis and into activity. You’re always doing something, you’re not controlled by convention or circum—“

He can’t handle this, and his expression changes. “Dammit, Kristoph, I’m thirty four and I’m playing cards and piano in a themed restaurant like I’m a college student,” he snaps. “The person who I believed was the love of my life has run off overseas to marry some political schmoozler, and I’m not even _sure_ if I’m actually a single father.”

“You’re an adoptive father,” Kristoph offers diplomatically.

“There’s no _certainty_ in my role,” he continues. “I don’t even _know_ if Trucy’s parents are going to show up tomorrow and suddenly she’ll be snatched away from me and I’m not a father any more, I’m... nothing.”

“I was under the impression that her mother was dead, and her father...” Kristoph looks thoughtful. “Hmmm... I hope her father _doesn’t_ choose to make an appearance.”

It’s an odd comment to make, and even in his frustration, Phoenix notices it, raising an eyebrow. Zac Gramarye’s return could manage to explain a few things, at least.

“I just think—he’s left you with his daughter, and were he to show up tomorrow and then demand her back, I would have to have words with him as a concerned friend—and I’d be frightened that my interaction wouldn’t be limited to _words_.”

Such an eloquent way of saying that he’d resort to violence on behalf of his fatherly honor. It would be almost touching if Kristoph didn’t sound so cold about it.

“Kristoph,” Phoenix says slowly. “I appreciate that—but you don’t have to defend me—it’s not like—“ And he hangs off there, not wanting to finish the sentence, worried that he might react if he speaks the words aloud. _It’s not like you and I have any kind of relationship_.

“I care about you a great deal.” He places a hand over Phoenix’s gently, quelling the way it’s shaking.

“You don’t need to do this to make me feel better,” Phoenix tells him. “Actually, this sort of thing usually just makes me feel worse.”

“I _do_.”

Phoenix sighs. “Let’s face it,” he says. “You care about me enough for some company and casual sex, but that’s about it.”

Kristoph doesn’t say anything, and before he can think of a response, some nicety to fill the void, some diplomatic response, Phoenix stops him. This is undignified, if not anything else.

“You’re chasing after that assistant of yours,” Phoenix offers, unable to avoid offering the evidence, followed with a hopefully carefree smile to indicate that it’s no big deal anyway.

Kristoph is silent, still, and it’s only when his eyes shift away from Phoenix’s and down towards their hands, one over the other, on the tabletop, that he speaks. “As I’ve said… Perhaps the assistant is just a safe fantasy. He’s only young, he’s spent most of his life working rather than messing around and fulfilling his hormonal urges... he’s only very recently come out, and he’s very tentatively flirting with me.”

“That’s lovely,” Phoenix mutters.

“He’s _safe_ , Phoenix.” There’s no upbeat, convincing note in Kristoph’s voice, it sounds heavy and dead and unenthusiastic now, and Phoenix feels a shiver run through his body. “I do recall telling you some time ago that I’m... somewhat damaged. I have _quirks_ , Phoenix, and one of these is an issue with trust.” His eyes dart across the tabletop and further towards the floor. “To me, Phoenix, you’re not some sort of random, meaningless encounter—you’re the man who the world knew as Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney. It’s just that this terrifies me because I fear what such a brilliant mind could do to me.”

Considering it for a moment, and then willing his eyes to meet Kristoph’s—they don’t—Phoenix’s voice drops to something only above a bare whisper. “I’m not going to do anything to you,” he says. “I mean that—what _would_ I do to you?”

“Fear neither has to be rational nor of something tangible,” Kristoph mutters. “And... mmm... fear of the unknown is a reasonable fear, don’t you think?”

“I assured you last time that—“

Kristoph nods. “I realise this,” he says. “And perhaps this is one reason I wish to do away with my assistant—he’s trained well enough to be able to set foot in any legal office in the country and find work; he’s trained under _me_ —I can offer him a good reference and say that personal issues lead me to require time away from the office and thus I didn’t have sufficient time to invest in _him—“_

Phoenix watches him carefully. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” he says, agreeing, nodding solemnly, unable to quell the sense that perhaps this is Kristoph letting go of an excuse which got in the way of commitment.

“I suspect it will be: the boy is off in his own world lately, because of that stupid copyboy.”

That _wasn’t_ quite what Phoenix was hoping to hear, but he says nothing, trying to look demure. He’s sick of hearing about the assistant who has lately become central theme to their conversations; Phoenix wonders if Kristoph has any idea how irritated the mention of the kid makes him, and if it’s at all _intentional_. Probably not: Kristoph has always been privileged and unaware of it; in some ways he’s just as selfish as Edgeworth was in seemingly failing to recognise basic human emotions. Maybe it was one of the things which came with a brilliant legal mind. 

“I do wonder though...” Kristoph looks thoughtful, and a smirk of the devilish appears on his face—“How interested he was in me to begin with. Perhaps he was just flirting to secure his place in the office, leading on an old man like myself—“ The way he’s smiling—it’s not quite bitter—it’s incredulous—as though he truly doesn’t believe such things but feels that there’s every chance that Apollo _could_ be doing that.

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to jeopardise his role in the office,” Phoenix offers, wishing to get this over with. He watches Trucy in the distance and looks back at Kristoph. The sooner the assistant is gone, the better. At the very least, while it may not secure Kristoph, it will change the conversation topics between them.

“I wondered what it would be like to seduce him,” Kristoph says coyly, sipping his wine and smirking. “I suppose if I have plans to dispose of him anyway, it shan’t matter if I were to attempt such a thing, hmm?”

And then there’s that look, like he’s asking for permission or approval. And Phoenix just looks back stonily, unsure of what to say.

“He’s only eighteen,” Kristoph says as though that explains everything. “He’s earnest and dedicated and sometimes I’ve wondered—“

And then maybe it’s wine catching in his throat or something else, but Phoenix coughs.

This time, it’s Kristoph who raises an eyebrow.

“Do you feel that I couldn’t possibly seduce him?” he asks. “That this is truly my imagination running away with me, Phoenix?”

“Nuh—no. Not at all—if I was an eighteen year old assistant, I’d certainly be—well—“ He rubs the back of his neck distractedly—“I _was_ that young assistant once, and, well—I’ve had a crush on my mentor.” He grins sheepishly, the smile sinking into a bitter from when he thinks about Edgeworth, and then realises that this sort of thing _does_ actually seem awfully common amongst their profession. “Why not go for it?” The jealousy in him is tamed and logical now. It’s all very simple. Perhaps Apollo will leave on his own accord if something happens between them.

“Why would a bright young thing like him want an old man like _me?”_

“At least you’re not a washed-up has been who got disbarred and seemingly through his own shoddy practises—“

“Stop the self-pity, Phoenix, and the faux modesty—a man like you would be able to seduce anyone.”

“No I wouldn’t.” He blinks, meeting icy blue eyes. _I haven’t seduced you, Kristoph_.

“I couldn’t seduce my way out of a paper bag.”

“To a young and impressionable attorney-to-be, you’re a _god_.”

“That’s just my former title. It’s no different to a kid that age wanting to sleep with a supermodel just because she’s a supermodel.”

“Stop showing off now—“

“You know what I mean, Kristoph.” Phoenix sighs. “I’m nothing: you still have you wonderful career, you’ve hardly aged a day since you first began appearing in the magazines, and you have your own _title_. You could have anyone you want and you know it.”

“I feel the same way about _you_.” He pauses thoughtfully, leaving Phoenix reeling: _Well why aren’t we together by now? Why this stupid conversation about an insignificant kid?_

Kristoph adjusts his glasses and continues, a dark smirk having replaced the sunny smile. “Isn’t it funny how self-perception is always so vastly different to that of our peers?” He asks it as though it’s really a statement, and then his eyes flash for a moment behind the lenses of his glasses. “I’m sure you don’t credit yourself with enough, Phoenix, but I think you could _easily_ seduce that assistant of mine.”

“Yeah, by telling him I’m Phoenix Wright and hoping he doesn’t think I’m just some crazy old rambling hobo.”

“No—leaving that out of the equation—“

“It wouldn’t work.”

“I’m sure it _would_ —if I know one thing about you, Phoenix, it’s that when you’re suitably motivated, you can do whatever you put your mind to.”

“You sound like my fourth-grade teacher.” He shakes his head. “And—this is nuts—I’m not interested in your assistant, Kristoph—I’m interested in _you.”_ As if to make the point, he clasps his other hand over Kristoph’s, relishing the cool smooth skin under his fingertips and smiling to himself, clutching it with a bit more force than he normally would.

“Suitable motivation?” Kristoph asks coyly. “Suppose I told you that my assistant confessed to me that he happened to be a _virgin_?” There’s an amused, scandalised smirk across his lips, making Phoenix wonder how _much_ he’s considered the possibility of seducing him.

“So?” Phoenix shrugs. “I’ve... done things with people who haven’t had much experience, and... it’s left me wondering if I’m doing the right thing.” A hardened, bitter note forms in his words. “ _Edgeworth_ was like that,” he sniffs. “I mean, now he’s not, but when he was with me, he didn’t have much experience of... a normal sex life, and I felt like I was left to do everything. And it always made me feel weird; I felt like I had to be a mind reader in order to do anything with him, I felt guilty if he didn’t get off—I—“

“So what _would_ be suitable motivation, Phoenix?”

“I told you—I don’t want _him_.” He wonders if this is some kind of a test mingled with an attempt at arousing jealousy. “I want _you_ , Kristoph--” _I want that excuse for a lack of commitment from you_ gone.

Kristoph’s smile changes. “Let’s suppose that were part of the package then,” he says. “Seduce my assistant—prove me _correct_ , in other words—that with simple motivation you can do anything you want—and—you can have me. For whatever you wish: I’ll be your lawyer, your lover, your meaningless sexual release if that’s what you desire. It would be entirely up to you.” He smiles serenely. “Would _that_ be motivation enough?”

“That’s not fair,” Phoenix snaps back, trying not to consider the endless possibilities. “Why would you suggest such a thing: this was all about _you_ wanting to seduce that assistant of yours, not about me.”

“But now the offer’s—on the table, so to speak—you’re interested, aren’t you?”

Both of them know the answer; Phoenix needs neither to confirm nor deny it.

“Let’s suppose we call it equal, then,” he says matter-of-factly—“If _you_ were to seduce your assistant—as I said you would--  your fantasies could... come true.” His fingertips are making swirling patterns on the top of Phoenix’s hand; it’s strangely hypnotic in a way, and Phoenix can feel the blood rushing into his cheeks. And other places.

“I know you want me, Phoenix Wright. I know I could provide suitable motivation in this instance.”

“But I don’t _want_ to seduce your assistant.” _I want him_ gone, Phoenix thinks bitterly to himself.

“I want to see how you operate, Phoenix.”

“You’ve seen me _in_ operation.”

“Through my own eyes. Never as a bystander.”

“Wouldn’t you be jealous if I managed to, anyway?”

Kristoph chuckles. “Not at all.” Slender fingers rise to his face to push his glasses back up his nose. “Do you honestly think, Wright, that I have _any_ sort of emotional attachment to the boy?”

 _Yes_.

“Or do you think that I wouldn’t relish the idea of the two of you sexually engaged?”

“I don’t _want_ to be sexually engaged with him.”

“He’s grown up since you last saw him. You might.”

“Anyway,” Phoenix snaps back—“This is hardly equal or balanced. It just feels like you’re wanting me to seduce this intern of yours to amuse you. So you can possibly be—what? My—sex slave? My legal counsel?”

A laugh emerges from him then, bitter and incredulous.

“If that’s what you want,” Kristoph says darkly, and there’s a glimmer of something dangerous in his eyes, then, a darkness of unfathomable depth. 

It’s a danger which excites Phoenix. Perhaps it’s the thrill of something different, risk, uncertainty; something a regular routine has sapped from his life, something he isn’t in the position to seek out any more due to his responsibility to Trucy; he’s not sure, but at that moment, he wants Kristoph more than he’s wanted anything else in his life.

Frustratingly, though, he doesn’t have the option of just leaving; this isn’t like those early days of singledom; he eyes Trucy, chattering away and oblivious, and frowns to himself.

Kristoph is still smiling.

“All you need do _is ask_ ,” Phoenix says under his breath. “The less complicated this is—“

“I thought you enjoyed the thrill of some healthy competition, Phoenix.” He smiles again, removing his hand from Phoenix’s. “I thought human psychology interested you.” He shrugs. “Anyway, perhaps Apollo isn’t to your liking, anyway.” And he leaves it there, leaving Phoenix to wonder what Kristoph thinks his type _is_.

“I just think this is fundamentally unfair, not to mention unnecessarily cruel towards your assistant.”

“Yet you neither know nor like him, and yet you haven’t refused. You’re still sitting here, aren’t you?”

He hates Kristoph for pointing that out, and he can feel his face heating up.

“It’s not really a balanced situation,” he mutters. “It almost appears that you—“ And he stops there, because he doesn’t want to admit what he’s thinking, that it’s like Kristoph is puppeteering him for his own amusement. He worries if verbalising that will have some sort of powerful magic, if speaking it will make it happen. Or if doing so will cause Kristoph’s trust issues to flare up and send him running.

Kristoph eyes him, and smiles. “Are you suggesting that the situation isn’t fair to _me_?” he asks.

“Sort of—it’s almost like—well, what do you get if you, well, _win_?”

“The knowledge that I can beat a great at his own game?” he asks with a smirk. “The ability to impart particular knowledge onto my a­­ssistant with no strings attached—“

 _Until he sues you for sexual harassment_ , Phoenix thinks, wondering then if part of this game, this bet, has a darker proposed outcome—perhaps Kristoph is hoping that the awkwardness after either of them sleeps with Apollo will result in the young assistant leaving the office on his own accord.

But Kristoph looks thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right,” he says. “Typical of you, isn’t it?-- to be so acutely aware of fairness in competition.” He smiles slightly. “You’re a worthy opponent.”

“It almost sounds like you’re mocking me when you say it like that.”

“Of course I wasn’t, Phoenix.” Kristoph’s voice is a purr which doesn’t quite convince the other man. “If anything, demanding an equal playing field means that if I win, I know I’ve won genuinely through my own skill and ability—it’s not that the board has been tilted in my favour.”

Phoenix chuckles to himself, his decision made. How bad can it be? Just a simple game, designed to remove the competition, that’s all it is. It’s allowing Kristoph to believe he has control over what’s probably inevitable anyway. He sips his drink and offers Kristoph a flirtatious grin. “You’re an honourable man, Kristoph. I won’t have a problem losing to you.”

And then Kristoph smiles, placing his glass down, and Phoenix isn’t sure if that smile is enticing and sexually-charged and intensely arousing, or terrifying.


	7. Chapter 7

There hadn’t been much discussion around the wedding. The talks about the aesthetics were noted down and considered by the pair of them in a few hours, and when they were finalised, Colias’ secretary set about the organisation of the big day. Watching Colias and the secretary discuss the plans, intermingling Cohdohpian in with their stunted English-- which Miles suspected was more for his benefit than their comfort—he felt as though he could have been at a political briefing. The whole process had felt cold and efficient, and while Miles could appreciate that much, it left him unexcited about the big day, just seeing it as another ceremony in the life of a well-known political figure.

While he hadn’t wanted anything elaborate or undignified, and he’d made that perfectly clear to Colias-- who’d initially suggested something to rival an animated princess epic—he’d assumed there’d be some sort of work with  _Colias_  on the details, full of compromise and debate. He’d have never agreed to the six-tier wedding cake with models of the two of them on top made from sugar icing, but he might have agreed to the horse-drawn carriage as they left the grounds if he’d had enough nudging. In a way, he’d liked that push-and-pull compromise of a relationship, and he’d grown used to it—and he’d expected it here.

 _I’m still thinking about_ him _, aren’t I?—_

Instead, others had been commissioned to look after everything and find a comfortable, neutral middle ground between their desires, and it was to be organised with the impersonal precision of a public appearance where Colias would attend a renamed school, spending a few hours being filmed playing with children. Only this isn’t as blatantly political.

 

 

When the day arrives, it’s cloudy, and Miles stares out the window for a long time before he dresses. Even the foolish traditions of marriage aren’t being honoured, he thinks to himself as he can hear Colias humming to himself in the ensuite. Then again, if they weren’t supposed to be seeing one another on the morning of their nuptials, they definitely weren’t meant to be sleeping in the same bed by this stage.

As he affixes his cravat, he realises that this isn’t at all about romance and tradition anyway. It’s just a formality, something to fall back upon and to mention if a critic accuses the Palaeno government of homophobic policy or to avert a female-centered sex scandal. It’s something to pacify conservatives with so the president cannot be said to be living in sin. It’s political proof that he’s settled down demurely, that he’s trustworthy and that his private life remains private as opposed to part of his  _image._

It’s not that Colias doesn’t love him and that  _he_  doesn’t-- well, he’s never used the four-letter word himself, but then again, he’s not used it in probably twenty years, and his insides still twist with humiliation from remembering that instance. But he’s very  _fond_  of Colias, and Colias is a good romantic partner, more considerate and dignified than most of the others have been, and far more suitable than just about anyone else, as well. The man is a sensible choice; being busy with politics means he won’t intrude upon Miles’ personal space and that he can remain coolly independent; it’s a relationship without having any of that stifling clinginess and insecurity. He knows that the two of them will and can be happy together.

But he can’t quite still the nerves, the idea that he’s embarking upon something usually considered Very Serious, and that perhaps a part of him isn’t entirely used to the idea yet.

 

 

 

Colias steps out from the ensuite, running a brush through his golden mane. The sight of him is breath-taking; for a man in his forties, he still looks at least ten years younger, and the regal wedding attire makes him look every bit Prince Charming. He’s wearing the same charcoal suit as Miles is, but underneath that, an exquisite green and gold, subtly-patterned waist coat and a fine silk shirt. His eyes sparkle enthusiastically like he’s a small child on Christmas morning; they’re eyes which are impossible not to smile back at.

“It’s probably a good thing we’ve decided to keep this wondrous occasion hush-hush,” Colias says, rubbing his hands together, stifling his almost-charming nerves. “If the general public saw you today, they’d accuse me of just marrying you for your gorgeous looks.”

“You flatter me,” Miles says quietly. “And I pale in comparison to you, my dear.”

“People would say you’re just marrying the future president.” He laughs, and Miles isn’t sure whether the comment is something that wouldn’t have sounded so offensive in Colias’ native tongue, or if excitement and happiness has blinkered him to how  _nasty_  it sounded. Miles attempts a chuckle; it’s a pointless thing to be bothered by.

Perhaps Colias senses the silence and realises his faux pas, or perhaps he’s too caught up in his excitement to worry. “You look nervous,” he notes casually. “Please don’t be.” 

Miles doesn’t say anything, still thinking about the comment made only a moment ago. He knows it wasn’t  _meant like that_  but he’s mildly irritated at the way Colias has just reaffirmed why they need to do things  _his_  way. He stands, to face Colias, kissing him gently on the cheek, daring not touch him lest his perfectly wrinkle-free appearance be disturbed. 

  
It’s probably a good thing that Colias just thinks he’s nervous about the wedding ceremony.  


 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

For Miles, the wedding itself feels surreal, like an out-of-body experience. He vaguely remembers a channelled Maya Fey on the stand in court from years ago and his stomach tightens because remembering that time in his life draws him back to memories of Phoenix. And he doesn’t want to be thinking about Phoenix right now: he’s  _left_  Phoenix, and Phoenix is a different person with a different life now and... _Kristoph Gavin_. He smiles to himself at the strange coincidence that they’ve both paired up with long-haired blonde men, willing himself to lose the cynicism and the mild irritation he has about everything lately. He’s determined to be happy, because he needs to smile today. And he should be happy: this is his  _wedding._  It’s closure of a kind, a farewell to the uncertainties of single life, of the paranoid worry about dying alone and unloved and still damaged, and to the endless question of where and how to meet suitable suitors. This might be what stops him being distracted by thoughts of a certain defense attorney.

 

The ceremony is only short, and he’s not had the time to fully adjust to being there, to repeating and reciting those words, to watching the celebrant’s lips move, and to the kiss which almost feels unexpected—though thankfully chaste and tasteful—from Colias moments later. He likes that the celebrant utters the words “You may now kiss your husband” and it’s as though he could be talking to either of them.

 

 

As they’re leaving and a few photographs are taken for personal posterity, he thinks about how this is the only wedding of someone close to him that he’s attended. He has no information about his parents’, none about Manfred’s, and Franziska seemed to have absolutely no intention of turning her back from work for more than a moment, much less finding the time for a casual relationship, let alone a wedding. Larry, Gumshoe, Maya and the others he’s known through work haven’t married, or if they have, he’s not been aware of it.

He’s the mature one, he thinks to himself as he signs the registry papers, the first of all the groups he’s been involved with to tie the knot. Closure is a beautiful, comforting thing.

 

 

The reception looks more like a Cohdopian cabinet meeting than a party. After the initial pre-dinner drinks, when the speeches happen between courses, he feels a sense of boredom as most of the speeches reflect around Colias’ achievements and the friendships he’s culminated through his political career. Very little is said of Miles, and some of the speeches are in Cohdopian, which Miles still isn’t proficient enough in to understand. He smiles and applauds when it is required of him, he eats his meal graciously and pretends to be fascinated in the conversation happening around him at their table. Every so often, the roving photographer hired for the occasions snaps a photo, and a flash of white catches his eyes and he hopes it managed not to catch him on film in a nanosecond of awkwardness.

He’s grateful to be leaving early with Colias, he’s sick of smiling and shaking hands and pretending he can at least follow an animated discussion in Cohdopian. By the end of the night he feels claustrophobic and irritated, and oddly out of place, as though his lack of a language has pushed him onto another side of the window in their view, into a world where he isn’t considered terribly important or intelligent. He’s rarely felt this inferior as an adult, especially since all his accomplishments—and he’s humiliated—and thoroughly grateful that he chose not to alert Franziska or any of his American friends. He tries to imagine Gumshoe—or Kay—or Larry—or Maya—here and now—and the thoughts of the social faux pas averted makes him feel slightly better, though still like an outsider.

And slightly lonely. Barring Colias, he knows no one from his former life as a world-class prosecutor here; even Agent Lang, who was invited as one of those who’d been involved with the reunification—turned down the invitation, explaining that it would be rude to expect the wedding party to cater for his 99 men and that it wasn’t his style to leave them out of things. At the time, Miles had been grateful, now, he realises, he’d have liked the possibility of talking to someone familiar even if it had meant a larger crowd of people he didn’t know being present.

 

As they shake hands with well-wishers and leave, several of Colias’ closer—and more intoxicated-- friends slap him on the back and say something in Cohdopian to the two of them. Miles doesn’t dare ask what it means, until after they’ve left the hall.

As they step out to more cameras and a line of security personnel in black suits at the fenceline, he considers the coincidence that both he and Phoenix have walked into a life where they’ve left those dear to them, and they’re now alone, barring that long-haired blonde Prince Charming.

 

___________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Phoenix is bored. He sits by the piano, toying with it idly, the sounds of the piano keys hollow and lonely. He can’t play, but sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly melancholy, he strikes specific notes on the ivory and he convinces himself that they sound beautifully thought-out and  _modern_. He’s no Tschaikovsky, he’s a newer breed of musician.

Of course, it helps when you’re drinking the last of another bottle of wine and you realise you’ve been stood up yet again.

 

He thinks vaguely of Kristoph, wondering why he hasn’t called, plonking a finger down on another key. This isn’t heartbreak, this is Greek _tragedy_. This is a man, alone with his dregs of a life and too much time surrounding things he needs to be doing. At the moment, Trucy is occupied with school, and his lover—yes, he can call Kristoph his lover—is probably at work. Possibly attempting to seduce his wide-eyed assistant as part of an elaborate dare which he’s still unsure he should have signed up for.

 

He stares across the room at the phone in its cradle, as though hoping for a moment that he can will it to ring. He’s not going to call anyone while he’s in this state, but feels that if anyone calls  _him_ , they can see what exactly he’s become and what his life his turned into. This is almost one of those times when he  _wants_  Edgeworth to ring, to hear that familiar voice with the shifting accent and the unintentionally callous good news. He could put up with that if it means hearing a familiar voice which might care about him.

He doesn’t want to think about the progression of the election or the engagement, but he can’t help it.

 

His fingers dance across the keys, chiming out the one  _real_ song he knows; it’s Russian, so it’s suited to his workplace. It’s apparently an old folk song but Phoenix remembers it from a video game in his childhood; he remembers amusing classmates in high school at lunch time with that tune, the one thing he’d mastered on the piano, the one which made people grin at one another and him and beg for more. Back in those days, he’d thought he was going to be a performer when he grew up: he was Phoenix, the arty kid with the hippy name and the talent for drawing and drawing attention to himself. If it was creative, he mastered it. Music was always more of a challenge than drawing or acting, but still: he’d spent hours playing that stupid game on his computer as a means of avoiding homework, and he’d learned the song off my heart.

 

Years later, he could still play it. And  _Happy Birthday_. And  _Baa Baa Black Sheep_. His repertoire isn’t great, but he plays the Russian video game music at work and no one minds, and he can whip out a  _Happy Birthday_  on the odd special occasion just as the Borscht Bowl waitstaff will produce a specially-organised cake.

But right now, even his one area of expertise, that one little once-amusing tune, does little to cheer him up. The video game song sounds lonely, he realises, just like he is—it’s positively maudlin and haunting.

 

He can’t sit here forever, though, drinking like this and half-heartedly playing the piano. He can’t ring Kristoph, who might be in court—and he can’t ring Edgeworth, who’s likely asleep at the moment. Ceasing the infernal racket, he snaps the piano lid shut, and walks over to the phone. The idea of ringing Maya—no, she’d be marvelling at the studio using her mountains for her TV show—occurs to him. But ringing Maya would be raining on her parade, and in his misery he’s aware that right now he has nothing to offer anyone in terms of social interaction—nothing except a depressing down which everyone, including himself—has grown tired of. Everyone else has life to occupy them, and they don’t need his vague and vacant  _space_  and misery.

Then there’s the vague notion of calling…  _Apollo_. If Kristoph is at court, Apollo may be stuck tending to the office—if of course, he isn’t out chasing after that copyboy—and perhaps Phoenix can distract himself with at least talking to the kid, pretending he really wanted to talk to Mr. Gavin. Maybe some harmless conversation might perk him up a bit and realise the mask he needs to wear to get through. Maybe getting in touch with Apollo will be reminding him—and distracting him—with a clear goal, it will get the ball rolling in a way, it will be starting to work towards something, giving him a mission and a sense of hope about a future with Kristoph. Maybe he’ll get some insight from the kid on how to proceed.

But at the moment, the idea of trying to muster up whatever it’s going to take to get him engaged seems as arduous as pulling a truck up a hill one-handed. Loneliness is exhausting enough as it is, and it has the add-on effect of making everything seem like far too much effort.

 

He wills the phone to ring for him, though it refuses to.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“And now we are alone.” Colias sounds scandalous, and he flashes a toothy grin at his new husband. “And we have the entire resort to ourselves.”

“Which seems a bit excessive, if you consider it,” Miles reminds him cautiously. “If your constituents learned that you were halting the tourism industry for your honeymoon plans—“

“They would see you and understand,” he says, still grinning. He’s tipsy; the politicking was subdued with champagne and loud music and dancing and more chuckling and Cohdopian. “Of course one would want to spare no expenses if they were lucky enough to be with someone like you.”

“Colias,  _please_.” The room they were sitting in was ridiculous enough; it made Miles think of the bizarre room he’d found himself in when he’d been in Japan and assumed that “love hotel” had been a bad translation for “ _good_  hotel.” It had been eye-opening. And now they’re in a similar room, ornate and lush and overly decorated; beautiful but ostentatious and yet without any of the kitschy quirkiness of the hotel room from his travels in Japan.

“Please  _what_?” Removing his jacket and giving his hair a shake, he looks every bit the romantic lead in a popular film. He leans in towards Miles, trying to finish the sentence for him, his voice teasing. “Please remove your clothing and pleasure me until I scream? Please remove _my_  clothing and provide an hour-long massage using that bottle of whitecrystal massage oil in my bag and then order room service and—“

Unable to work out how to say, “I’m not in the mood,” in either Cohdopian or English, Miles just looks at his husband grimly, deciding to go for another angle. “We aren’t alone,” he says. “We have guards situated just outside our door. It’s as though they’re concerned you’ve married some sort of… praying mantis which will devour you in your sleep.”

“And yet you don’t even do that when you’re awake, so I can’t see why they’d be concerned now.” Was that some sort of double-entendre, or just something that didn’t translate particularly well? He’s unimpressed, snappy with exhaustion, and all too aware of the guards outside the door.

“It’s bizarre thinking about your sex life being a potential issue of national security.” His back partially turned to Colias, he slips off his pants before sneaking into bed. There might not be cameras in here, but there is still enough light to make him self-conscious. 

Colias frowns. “There have been attempts on my life, Miles,” he says gently. “You get used to the staff. They are discreet and they rarely interact with me. Nothing they see or hear leaves them.”

“So they can hear this?” Miles shifts awkwardly. “Please don’t tell me that the room is bugged?”

Colias doesn’t say anything, and Miles feels the heat seep into his cheeks and he pulls the covers around him. “Oh  _god_ ,” he mutters, deducing from the look on Colias’ face that he’d guessed correctly. Suddenly, an even more worrying thought occurs to him.

“This isn’t the first time this has been the case, has it?” He thinks about the trips they’ve taken, the hotels they’ve stayed at, and the noises they’ve made in said hotels. This is mortifying.

“Yes.” Colias looks worried. “I was discreet with you in the past,” he says, and Miles isn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “Did you notice that when we travelled internationally, we were seated in different sections of the plane?”

Miles nods.

“I tried to keep up the notion that you were merely a friend or travelling companion for as long as I could,” he said. “Which was why we seldom had pre-booked hotel rooms and…” A devilish sparkle comes into his eyes. “It felt more exciting like that,” he admits. “But now that we’re married, there’s no hiding it.”

 _It felt more like poor organisation_ , Miles thinks to himself, and he’s not sure what to say now. Undoubtably, the guards will know what’s being said, and it offends his sense of etiquette to think of them hearing him talking about them.

“I wish you’d told me.”

“I always thought you were familiar with such procedures,” Colias offers with a shrug, stepping casually out of his pants and slipping into bed with any of Miles' awkwardness. “Does your own country not keep tabs on you?”

“Perhaps they do,” he says, never having really considered it, and now aware that  _his own country_  became Cohdopia when he signed his name on the registry—“But I’ve never had to think about guards listening in to bedroom conversation while I’m—“

The thought of ringing Gumshoe and asking if he has some sort of radio interference device occurs to him then; he doesn’t know much about electronics, but he does know that Gumshoe’s tinkered with things over the years and that it has, on occasion, resulted in flashes of genius which have been helpful in the past.

But explaining his need for such a device would mean having to explain everything else.

“Shall we… just have a quiet night then?” Colias asks tentatively. “Perhaps I could offer a perfectly… friendly… back rub.” He still looks hopeful; there’s a pleading, juvenile look in his face. It’s not like he won’t take no for an answer; he has in the past and he’s a considerate lover—it’s just that he looks almost pathetic, and Miles takes pity on him.

 

He lies there and takes it. First there is the massage, magically warm and soft, in part due to the whitecrystal massage oil, in part due to Colias’ expert hands, kneading away his tensions and caressing him with the same precision and obsession and interest as he himself had applied to the law. Colias has spent months learning him, studying him, understanding his reflexes and subtleties; Miles sometimes wonders if he knows his body better than his own.

He has to admit, Colias has learned his body well; he knows what it responds to, and it isn’t long before a languid massage leads to their bodies shifting together in sync, Colias pressed above him, is lips at his ear. “Are you still not in the mood, my dear?”

Miles murmurs quietly, his mood not dampened by Colias himself but by the idea of there being bugs in the room. He can feel Colias’ body—his smooth warm skin—against his own, his hands quite chastely rubbing his shoulders. There is no pressure here whatsoever, and he knows it. He also knows that his libido couldn’t care less about the bugs in the rooms or the security guards.

He moans quietly, realising that Colias will understand that as a yes; years on, and even with Phoenix’s sometimes completely bumbling naivete which meant needing to verbalise things, talking during sex is something he’s still not comfortable with. He thinks of Manfred, then, and wishes he hadn’t, because that brings forth a flood of conflicting confusion and humiliation and helplessness and—

“You’re tensing up, Miles.” Colias understands that much, but there are still parts of him he hasn’t been privy to, secrets which lie deeper than nerve endings, little pieces of Miles’ psyche which need to be explained with something that isn’t mere situational discomfort or genetics.

“I’m sorry—it isn’t you.”

Colias knows it isn’t. And he knows exactly what he could do to shatter the awkwardness, to take his husband’s mind off what’s bothering him in an instant, but he thinks better of it and allows his movements to stop.

“Are you tired?” he asks. “ _I_  was tired—all those people and well-wishers and—“ Suddenly another thought occurs to him, and he thinks better than to verbalise it. “It must be difficult for you,” he says. “I’d have hoped some of your friends—“ he feels Miles tense up at the word and corrects himself—“associates—could have shown their support.”

“I was perfectly fine,” Miles says coolly. And deciding that this is even more awkward than bugs or security guards standing outside the door, he forces himself to relax under Colias’ touch, turning his face slightly so he’s audible to his husband but hopefully not hidden audio recorders. His voice is a husky whisper, the subject changed. “I was  _enjoying_  that massage.”

Colias makes a soft, warm sort of growl in the back of his throat; appreciation and anticipation at the reactions he’ll be getting if he’s able to continue as he wishes to. He doesn’t say anything else, allowing his hands to knead at tense and tired muscles, the sharp white floral aroma of the whitecrystal oil working its magic.

He thinks, as Miles’ tension loosens and he’s now mumbling contentedly to himself, that he could indeed be the luckiest man in the world. He didn’t think he ever stood a chance with Miles Edgeworth—he knew he hadn’t years ago when gifts and flirting and assistance appeared to go unnoticed—but something had changed in the past couple of years and suddenly a chance and what he’d thought was going to be a brief affair turned into gambling on a positive result and a wedding and…

Miles relaxes under the warmth and the touch of the oil and his husband’s skilled fingers. He feels utterly spolit and doted on when Colias is like this; the man cannot be amorous without giving of himself so completely that it’s  _touching_. This is what love feels like, he thinks, this is something unfamiliar—with previous partners he’d felt as though he’d been instructed or self-conscious and scared of what reactions to him might have been. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable because to be vulnerable was to be left in danger. But Colias is different; Colias takes the reins coolly and subtly and he doesn’t mind. And the results always leave him feeling more than satisfied; utterly  _pampered_.

Maybe he is spoilt. But for the first time in his life, he’s felt loved and needed and cared about in a way that goes beyond his brains or his position or any function he can provide anyone.

 

He closes his eyes, the scent of the oil filling his lungs and the warmth around him reducing him to a languid, careless  _thing._ And… there is no worry of this being an attempt to win him over. There is no suspicion that things are going to chaotically change, leaving his life and their relationship in turmoil. They’re both sensible and just very,  _very_  --he notes as Colias’ fingers hit that point where neck becomes spine and which sets off a certain  _reaction_  in him—well-suited to one another. His misgivings and nervousness about the wedding were just that; his typical paranoia and fear of the unfamiliar. He's done the right thing, the honorable thing, the  _sensible_  thing. 

 

He thinks that he could very well be the luckiest man in the world. 


	8. Chapter 8

He waits for the Borscht Bowl to close this particular Friday, and his presence startles Phoenix and Trucy.

He’s waited by the silent, at the moment unattended piano, alone, nursing a clear liquid in a glass—probably his not-blue gin which he seems so fond of, Phoenix would say, he thinks-- and his expression is deeply contemplative until he sees them emerge from the door leading downstairs.

The restaurant is nearly empty and closing now. The waiters look tired, most of the customers are gone; a sad, slow traditional Russian song plays throughout the restaurant, piped over the speakers, winding down and encouraging the few remaining patrons to do the same. Every so often a waiter walks past Kristoph’s table and eyes him, to make sure he’s okay; they’re not going to ask him to leave because while they’re aware that he’s been drinking, they’re also aware that he spends money, and that he is a friend of their notoriously brilliant card shark and notoriously terrible pianist.

 

The pianist emerges from the small entryway to the staircase. Kristoph hadn’t noticed the man who’d left moments before, another hopeful shattered, another nameless face, another traveller—the man had told Phoenix downstairs that he’d come all the way from Atlantic City to try and best the champion poker player—but he notices Trucy and Phoenix appearing, a triumphant, happy team. He feels, for a moment, lonely; there’s a connection there, they have something together that he probably will never get to be a part of, a fireside contentment which he won’t be privy to. And maybe he’s never had that with anyone before. Maybe he never will, and seeing it so closely makes him wonder about it with confusion and melancholy.

Perhaps it’s the gin which is bringing on a sense of the maudlin. He shan’t dwell on people, people are… only parts of the greater plan. People are replaceable. People are… less significant than the end goal. He forces himself to smile and turns to Phoenix.

 

“Hello,” he says. The word isn’t slurred, it’s off-kilter. He’s been drinking, definitely, but he doesn’t come across as terribly intoxicated.

“Kristoph—“ Phoenix is shocked; this is unexpected. And he’s getting used to Kristoph behaving in a somewhat out of control manner—it doesn’t gel well with the crisp professional lawyer he knows—and it’s unnerving. “What are you—?”

“I dare say I shan’t be able to drive in this condition—would a taxi be out of the quest—“

“You didn’t need to wait for me...” As Phoenix says it, he’s aware that perhaps the drunkenness, the hanging around, is about more than what it seems. Could Kristoph be... _lonely_? Is this his way of admitting a desire for companionship without soundiong desperate? Or does he need the veil of alcohol to allow him to ask for intimacy?

“I chose to,” he says vaguely.

Utterly confused, Phoenix agrees to the taxi, and they return to his apartment in silence.

 

Not having said anything, and eyeing the taxi driver in the back window, Phoenix waits for some sort of suggestion that perhaps he should collect some things for himself and Trucy and intend to spend the night at Kristoph’s. But no such suggestion arrives, and Kristoph merely wishes them goodnight, Phoenix thanks the driver, and he and his daughter step out and head up to their apartment.

 

 

 

It’s when Phoenix is home, by himself, now that Trucy has gone to bed, that the confusion and unhappiness catches up with him. Just what the hell happened then? Did Kristoph want to talk to him? Did Kristoph want to spend the night with him? Why the lack of communication? He wonders if he’d somehow brought about this result, if Kristoph has lost interest in him, if he hasn’t been forthcoming enough about his desires.

Or is this just Kristoph being… _damaged_? Is something else going on for him?

Maybe he should have invited Kristoph upstairs, even though he’s aware that the apartment is a mess and the idea of Kristoph seeing how unpolished and messy his life is worries him. What if he’s just like Miles, and the mess of too little space and a daughter privately disgusts him?

Anxiety floods him in a way that he considers embarrassingly juvenile. This was like those first few dates with Dollie when he wondered if she really liked him… or this was like the heart-in-throat confession to Miles at the end of the Skye affair, when he’d managed to admit that Edgeworth’s burden of intense feelings was at least somewhat… shared. It’s nerve-wracking desperately teenage angst, and he hates it.

 

 _I’m in my thirties_ , he thinks. _And I still haven’t figured out whatever this thing I’m meant to figure out is._

 

He wonders about earlier conversations they’ve had: maybe his sexual orientation bothers Kristoph. Maybe privately, Kristoph is one of those people who views bisexuality as a kind of indecision, or a vague threat to commitment of any kind.

Or maybe… maybe he’s making excuses. Maybe all this could have not been an issue if he’d just invited Kristoph upstairs.

 

 

He walks to the kitchenette and automatically reaches for a bottle. With Trucy asleep and nothing else to do, and his pervading loneliness, drinking by himself like this has become ritual now. At least he knows a good night’s sleep is in order, and blunted sleep will knock out the memories of screwing up so badly with Kristoph.  

 

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

For Kristoph, the return home gives him time to think about the matter.

Is Wright lying to him already? Suppose he’s already been meeting up with Justice, suppose something has actually sparked between them?

It would explain a few things, like Justice’s forgotten interest in that copyboy, and his own lack of progress with his young assistant. Could Wright actually beat him at the game?

 

 _No. Of course not._ Apollo Justice was starstruck with class and sophistication and fame and money and power; things which Phoenix Wright no longer had, and thanks to the rules they’d agreed upon, he didn’t even have the curious notoriety of his name and persona. There was nothing, _he_ was nothing. Justice would probably avoid talking to _that_ , let alone developing romantic feelings for it.

Nonetheless, the rage and paranoia consumes him. Phoenix Wright has already beaten him at one thing, and his subsequent disbarment didn’t leave him with a feeling of contentment as he’d hoped it would. It had left him feeling… _empty_. There’d been the initial jubilation which he’d had to disguise as sympathy, to avoid detection, and there’d been some smug satisfaction at the way Wright hadn’t quite figured it out—perhaps he had Trucy to thank for distracting him—but overall, bringing down the famous lawyer didn’t give Kristoph any kind of thrill.

 

There had to be something _more_. Something even better. Something that would put Wright in his place—six feet under. Something even more humiliating, something which he literally couldn’t live down, something to completely destroy the myth, the lengend of Phoenix Wright, something which would stop people like Apollo Justice remembering him and speaking of him as though he were an inspiration.

 

 

From the desk in his study, Kristoph savours the taste of gin on his lips—it’s fresh and sharp and there’s something muted and entirely sensible about it. He considers the position he’s in—perhaps Wright was always a poker player, good at reading people and good at psychology; but he’s always preferred chess, a game of strategy and planning and precision. A game where a distraction can be fatal to ones’ opponent and where a quick swift win can happen, but where it’s overall far more interesting to watch them destroy themselves as they’re pushed into a corner and desperately trying to find a way out, flailing as they struggle to stay on the board, too proud and convinced of their own genius to call stalemate.

He considers the pieces _he_ has on the board. He has Phoenix entirely smitten with him, a malleable and broken Phoenix, willing to do just about anything for his affection and attention. A Phoenix who has so little self-esteem that he doesn’t even dare ask him up to his apartment in fear of rejection or humiliation. A Phoenix he can already do anything he wants with.

 

He could probably kill him at this point, but that would leave unanswered questions. That might arouse some suspicion.

 

 

He flicks on his computer; it’s Friday night and he’s bored and alone and while he ate at the Borscht Bowl, he wants more than food: _man cannot live off bread alone_ , he thinks wisely to himself, realising that the voice in his head doesn’t sound like _his_ , but Howard Stone’s.

He hates Wright for inadvertently bringing that voice back to him. Howard was a distant memory, a voice and a personality from a previous lifetime, a man whom he had tried to destroy, unsuccessfully. And it wasn’t for lack of trying, it was for a simple reason: he gave up because emotions got in the way. Emotions had been his downfall all the way through with Howard, and the memory is like a slap in the face; sudden and unexpected and painful and humiliating.

While Wright didn’t mean to summon that memory, it makes Kristoph grimace. Wright may not have known about the poker game which cost him the Gramarye case, either, but nonetheless, no one else was to blame for it, were they? His face tightens angrily: he needs to calm his rage. And forget about Howard Stone.

 

He sips his gin again. The hunger hasn’t subsided, and alcohol isn’t going to take care of it. Perhaps he has his moments of weakness, ordinary human needs. Maslow’s base levels have been met—oxygen, shelter, food, warmth, sleep—and some of the higher ones have too: self actualisation. The trouble is in the middle somewhere, the human part of the equation.

He supposes he has friends; he has regular social contact with people, at any rate, and he has a career. But he hungers for more.

 

Sex isn’t usually at the top of his priorities, but tonight, where all else is covered or unsettling, perhaps that is where his hunger lies. He’s uncertain: sex is a perfunctory pleasure, something used to grow closer to others, something to derive information from others, a tentative experiment to see how far one can be pushed and how low they can sink. Sex is also a beautiful, decadent distraction.

He doesn’t think of Howard this time, he thinks of Phoenix. He’s not quite sure what it is about the man that genuinely arouses him—it’s not arousal in the kind of way which would make him cease the revenge plans, it’s not even arousal in the kind of way which might make him genuinely _like_ Phoenix; it’s carnal and quite evil and yet delicious. Perhaps it’s in the same way as he hungers for revenge upon the man; it’s the helplessness, the malleability, the power he wields.

 

He thinks about Justice. He doesn’t feel like that about Justice; Justice is a luxury, a because-you-can dare, and a clean slate to boot. His gaze hardens when he thinks of Justice: he wants him to _remain_ a clean slate.

 

Both Phoenix Wright and Apollo Justice are off-limits at the moment. He can no more show helplessness towards Wright—ringing him this late when Trucy might awaken—than he can ring his sweet little virginal assistant and request some extra hours of service from him. No. His last resort is the computer screen in front of him and his right hand.

 

He tenses when he considers his small collection of pornography on the computer in front of him. Sex for its own sake has always made him feel vaguely inane and dirty, common and depraved, and in the early years his paranoia about getting caught doing anything which may have tarnished his shining image left him with perfectly dull, mainstream material which didn’t arouse in him any sort of interest whatsoever. Even the more extreme stuff—the fetish material, the BDSM—usually leaves him cold: it’s rare to find anything of decent quality and a part of him knows that it’s as scripted as cable TV wrestling.

But sometimes he needs something to assist with his release, something to fuel the imagination, something to remove the unpleasant aftertaste of thoughts of Howard—and Wright-- getting the better of him-- from his mind.

He double-clicks a file, and is momentarily distracted by the men on the screen in front of him. Sipping his drink again, and waiting, waiting for the rush to come forth and urge him to pursue matters further, he places his glass down next to the keyboard and smiles, eyes focused, glasses pushed up.

 

The edgeplay material tended to be more interesting than the average porno, but Kristoph still felt it usually lacked the believability to be anything more than an amusement. Electric shocks, piercing—it all looked a bit flashy--  mummification—that obscured one’s facial reactions too much for his enjoyment—the release of bodily emissions— _yuck_. He shuddered at the thought: some inconsiderate file-sharer had once incorrectly labelled what was meant to be an intern being punished by his prosecutor boss—now that _did_ have vague amusement value for obvious reasons—but which had been, instead, something completely _vile_. No, that wasn’t to his taste… he was far more discerning.  

He did, however, have a few videos, friends who’d avoided a trip to the Recycle bin as so many other files did; things he kept aside lest curiousity, boredom or a need to push other thoughts away-- arose. The file he opens is one such movie.

 

It’s fairly standard stuff; leather, a rack, obscured faces because no one really wants to admit to helping create this low-quality trash—whips, some bad acting and a few lazily uttered lines intended to suggest humiliation and power imbalance between the men on the screen in front of him. He’s mesmerised at the heavy breathing and the whimper as rope is twisted and tied into intricate knots around a muscular body; he’s heard things, of course, about the ultimate rush of asphyxiation, of the trust required between consenting partners, of the accidents--

 

He smiles in the darkness under the blue glow from the computer screen, sipping his gin again, finally allowing himself the sensation of touch; a hand slipped into his trousers.

He never thought pornography could have this effect on him, but Kristoph Gavin is inspired.  

 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Trucy can’t sleep. Sure, she was sleeping earlier in the evening, when the exhaustion from school, the show, and then the poker games caught up with her, but now it’s 2am and Phoenix is realising that he’s sober and drained himself. Sleep should find him soon, and he wants it to, but his daughter had other ideas.

Two-oh-five. And he can hear the footsteps padding softly into the space they call a living room. He curses under his breath.

Trucy’s eyes widen. “Daddy?”

“Hi sweetie.” His voice shows all the misery and exhaustion with no optimistic coverup. He’s usually so upbeat for his daughter, upbeat or casually relaxed; but at this hour, lethargy wins over the need for an image.

And Trucy’s on another page: there’s an alertness in her eyes indicating that she’s wide awake.

“What do you say it’s bed time now?” Phoenix asks, and Trucy shakes her head.

“I can’t sleep, daddy.”

“But you _need sleep_.” He knows it’s a futile argument but he’s too drained to come up with something better.

“I’ve just been—thinking.” She doesn’t even rub her eyes, as he’s sorely tempted to now.  

“About what?”

“About—“ and she plays with one of the sleeves of her nightgown, trying ot work out how to say whatever’s troubling her rather than trying to find the words—“Are you and Mr. Gavin dating?”

It’s such an innocent question, so childishly blurted out. Phoenix wonders if this has been bothering her, if Kristoph has been keeping _her_ awake at night as well as himself.

“Sort—“ He stops himself. _Not really_. “We’re good friends.”

Calling it anything else is pathetic: how many dates does it take for a partnership to be born? Doesn’t that involve some agreement from both parties? Doesn’t it involve routines, a comfort with one another—god, how did this go with Edgeworth again—no, that wasn’t a healthy model for a relationship, either--   

Trucy is still looking at him, wide-eyed, and not quite believing him. “Like you and Uncle Larry are good friends?”

“No.” He can’t help but smile, trying to imagine the sheer horror that would be on Larry’s face if he heard that anyone even suggest that he wasn’t 100% heterosexual. “Uncle Larry and I have a much more simple friendship.”

He rubs his neck, watching Trucy’s expression, searching for any overt approval or otherwise. He’d have been a fool to have thought she would just fail to notice—and fail to discuss it with him.

“Why do you ask, Trucy?”

“Because I know I’ve talked about wanting a mommy before, and, well, I haven’t seen you seeing other ladies,” she says carefully. “And I know that I’d know if you were.”

He evades the question. “Yeah, there’s no hiding anything from you, is there?”

“Nope,” she says with a grin.

Phoenix smiles back at her and glances at the clock in the kitchen. “Look, sweetie,” he says. “It’s late—how about I make us some hot chocolate, we both brush our teeth and hit the sack?”

 

It’s a compromise, he thinks, as she bounces off towards the refrigerator for the milk— Trucy’s never been the type of kid to just accept a “no.” Hopefully hot chocolate will give her an extended bedtime and yet make her sleepy enough to _want_ to go to bed.

When they’re sitting by the coffee table, Phoenix hopes that she’s grown bored of the previous conversation, and that her talking to him had more to do with leading in to ask him for a new magic trick or a toy—or some other honey-coated request. But she doesn’t make such an ask; she grabs her mug, takes a tentative sip, and places it back on the table, deciding that it’s too hot.

“So, Mr. Gavin,” she says matter-of-factly. “I sort of thought we might have gone over to to his place tonight.”

Funny: Phoenix had thought the same thing. He doesn’t know how to respond. A frequent concern occurs to him: does she have any _idea_? Sure, she’s precocious, but just how _much_ does she know about adult relations? He stiffens, thinking it’s too damned early and he’s too damned tired to be having this conversation and these thoughts.

“I don’t _mind_ if you had wanted to go back,” she says. “And if I were to get another _Daddy_ instead of a _Mommy_ , well...” She looks at her hands, and then smiles, looking back at Phoenix. “I’d have _four_ Daddies then, wouldn’t I?”

“Four?”

“Well, there’d be you, there’d be Mr. Gavin—and I’d have to find something else to call him—and my other daddy, and Uncle Valant—“

“Uncle Valant isn’t—“

“Uncle Valant was _like_ a daddy,” she says, leaving it there and leaving Phoenix to wonder for the millionth time what had been going on beneath the big top of the three ring circus that was Troupe Grammarye.

“But anyway—Ashley Arthurs at my school has two mommies, so I guess I could have four daddies.” She smiles, looking hopeful. “Has Mr. Gavin said anything about being my daddy too?”

“Erm...” _Mr Gavin_ had scarcely mentioned Trucy, and only then to point out that Phoenix had a responsibility which made him hesitant to embark upon a relationship with him.

“Not really.”

“Maybe he’s shy, then,” she suggests. “I don’t know why—he knows me, he’s known me for a long time—I wouldn’t have any problem with him being my daddy too.”

Redirecting the conversation, Phoenix sips his hot chocolate. “So you’ve given up on this mommy idea?” he asks.

“Well,” she says. “I remember when Mr. Edgeworth was sometimes living here or we were over at his place—“

“Mr. Edgeworth,” It feels funny referring to him like that—“Was a friend.” No point in dwelling on the past or pretending their relationship was much more than that. Even if it was, it doesn’t matter now, and it certainly isn’t worth going through all the details with Trucy.

“I saw you hugging and kissing him like—“ She looks puzzled then. She knew what she’d seen.

“Trucy—“

“ _Friends_ don’t hug and kiss like that. Not grownup friends.” She’s indignant, irritated with the way he’s dismissing her. “ _Mommies and Daddies_ hug and kiss like that.”

 

Edgeworth would be mortified to know he was being spoken about in such a manner; especially since he’d always avoided doing anything too demonstrative in front of Trucy. (“It’s not proper for children to see that,” he’d said, and Phoenix always wondered if that was because he’d never seen his own parents behaving affectionately towards one another.)

Phoenix sighs. “Mr. Edgeworth is overseas now,” he says, neglecting to include any mention of a certain political figure or their breakup.

“So, you broke up?”

Reeling from the question, Phoenix tries to think of an appropriate response. Resorting to “I’m surprised you remember him that well—you were very little,” he hopes to throw her off.

“He was always nice to me,” Trucy says thoughtfully. “He bought me ice cream and he got me that ring trick and he tried to get me to like tea.” She smiles. “And he suggested some really good stage music for me once.”

 

Phoenix can’t help but frown, considering the short space of time he and Edgeworth had been together and the impact that it had made on Trucy. He’d never given that much consideration before.

“But if you’re seeing Mr. Gavin now, I think you should spend time with him a bit more. Invite him over on a weekend; we can do things and I can show him my magic tricks and he can get to really know me.”

“Truce—“ He can’t work out why he doesn’t really want Trucy and Mr. Gavin to get to know one another. Realising there’s no logical answer—god, _logical_ —he’s thinking like Edgeworth now—he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll ask him.”

Trucy smiles, sipping her hot chocolate.

“I think you look sad and tired lately, Daddy,” she tells him. “And—“

“Is _that_ what was keeping you awake?”

“Kind of,” she says. “But then I got to thinking about Mr. Gavin: you seem happy around him. You smile a lot more, you look hopeful.”

For some reason this is excrutiatingly embarrassing. Of course Trucy would notice such things. He just sometimes wishes she had the tact not to mention them.

“Honey,” he tells her, sipping his own hot chocolate, “You don’t need to worry about me being happy: I _am_ happy because I have a great daughter and an interesting job and…”

Trucy frowns. “Everything can always be improved upon,” she says seriously. “That’s _one_ thing I always remember Mr. Edgeworth telling me.”

 

Phoenix frowns, then opens his mouth, wanting to offer the words but somehow not being able to. He still isn’t sure why he doesn’t want Kristoph meeting Trucy: maybe he’s afraid his daughter will like the man more than him—or maybe—

It’s irrational, and since thinking about dating, he’d always maintained that he didn’t want Trucy getting acquainted with a string of his one night stands and casual mistakes if there were any. And already Kristoph has been in his life for years, and there’s no indication that he’s going away: just how long is long enough to be involved with someone and to feel comfortable introducing them to the family?

Maybe that’s the problem: a cool friendship isn’t the same as a relationship. Or maybe it’s something more.

 

He can hear the murmur of Edgeworth’s voice in his head, that irritated and incoherent and thoroughly frustrated _noise_ that his ex used to make when Phoenix was being weird or overly sentimental or just _stupid_ about things.

 _“For god’s sake, Wright, just get the damned flu shot— I’ll pay for it, even: I spend enough time around you that it would be beneficial to_ me _if I don’t happen to fall ill or be stuck taking on your fatherly duties because you’re incapacitated--“_

 _“I don’t_ like _needles.”_

 _“Nggggrhh.”_

 

 _“Honestly, if you’re so finicky about cleanliness, you could tidy up the clutter in the living room rather than disinfect the toilet twice a day—“_

 _“But I like it to be_ clean _.”_

 _“Ngggggrh.”_

He blinks as he considers it.

 _Figure out why you’re being so reluctant, Wright. Is it your own stupid sentimentality and fear of being wrong should you and that Gavin split, or… was I correct in my assumption that he’s untrustworthy?_

 

Maybe he needs to progress with Kristoph a bit more. If he wins the game, he knows he can bring Kristoph home more frequently. But maybe the game will be tossed aside: and anyway, Trucy need not know about the game.

He considers the idea that the game was just a joke, just Kristoph having a witty little chuckle at everyone else’s expense, something to not be taken to seriously, and to bring about comedy when he’d realised that Phoenix himself had taken it seriously.

 

 

He puts down his hot chocolate and looks at Trucy. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I guess it’s silly of you not to see Mr. Gavin more since…”

She doesn’t need to say anything, but she smiles. “So can I tell my friends at school that you’re _seeing someone_ , Daddy?” she asks. “Milly George was thinking you could go out with her Mom…”

Phoenix blinks. God. He’d tell Trucy he was dating _Klavier Gavin_ if it stopped Trucy and her classmates playing match-maker behind his back.

“Maybe that’s not such a great idea,” he offers gently. “Though I appreciate that you think of me.”

She leans across the sofa, giving him a tight, awkwardly clumsy hug; in some ways, she was so very grown up, in others, she was still Trucy Wright, Phoenix’s little girl. He closes his eyes and smiles.

“I love you, Daddy,” she mumbles into his arms. “I just want you to be happy.”

 

He doesn’t reply, but mentally, a voice mutters, “ _Me too_.”

He shuts out the echo of the “ _Nrrrgggh”_ which follows a moment afterwards. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Game of Cards Ficmix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/450090) by [dreamwriteremmy (ehryniewi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehryniewi/pseuds/dreamwriteremmy)




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